


Falling Off The Edge

by PearlyDewdrops



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Angst, Artist Louis, Coming Out, Fluff, Louis is Harry's muse, Louis likes to draw comic strips with Niall, M/M, One Night Stand, Photographer Harry, Pining, Strangers to Lovers, Student Harry, darkroom shenanigans, long-distance romance, lots of text messages, some brief, superhero subplot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 06:05:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 39,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6942814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PearlyDewdrops/pseuds/PearlyDewdrops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis is a bartender by night, superhero creator by day. Harry is a photography enthusiast looking to discover who exactly he is. They've apparently been neighbours for a while, which is news to Louis, and when they finally meet, Harry is possibly everything Louis has ever wanted and more. </p><p>There's just one tiny snag: Harry is moving to New York in less than twenty-four hours.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Okay, I'm going to try to update this regularly now and actually finish a WIP! I have this fic planned and outlined so it's just a case of getting it out. I'm not sure exactly how many chapters I'm writing yet though but let's see how it goes :)
> 
> EDIT: (April 2018) Alright, so I've dusted this thing off, changed some things, and I think I've found the motivation to continue. Hooray?? Wow, after over two years, eh? rip. I've changed the title, too... (does anyone ever do that? Well, I just did. And I thought I should mention it in case you were wondering how I could have possibly named the fic after a song released in 2017 when I last updated in 2016, because no, I did not time-travel. Okay, enough rambling).
> 
> Title taken from 'Surrender' by Walk The Moon.

 

Louis slumps against the back of the lift, dodging a piece of rudely disregarded gum stuck to the metallic floor, hugging his shoes to his chest with weary limbs and a dry throat. He could quite easily inhale about a gallon of water right now.

He swipes his fringe out of his eyes and catches an unfortunate glimpse of his hair in the smudged mirrors either side of him, speckled with dots of dirt. As expected, his hair is a bedraggled mess, and his eyes are bleary and half-lidded as he blinks them furiouslyꟷthe relentless long nights have well and truly caught up with him.

Louis really needs more shifts during the day. Or a new day job altogether. 

He needs sleep. Could really do with a whole week’s worth of it. He's irritable and exhausted after this particularly, shall we say,  _eventful_  shift at the club, because being vomited on tends to ruin one's general mood.

Niall had ended up chucking up on him from  _behind_  the bar, so that was a lovely start to the evening. The kid had the sudden urge to pretend to re-enact the Hippy Hippy Shakes scene from the film _Cocktail_  (modern day classic, that. He's kidding—though he did think it was a bloody masterpiece watching it unironically with Niall last week—and of course they were absolutely high) and once Niall had managed to smash his way through enough glasses and cause utter mayhem, he at least had the good decency to look guilty about it. Though that look probably meant he knew the vomit was readying itself for impact.

The bullseye being right in the middle of Louis' chest.

Ah, the foul smell of overdoing it. Good times.

Then there was the incredibly persistent (and incredibly drunk) Alex Turner lookalike (he'll never see The Arctic Monkeys the same way again) who had insisted for nearly an hour that Louis was his high-school boyfriend, Jimmy (he absolutely was not), slurring and demanding an explanation for standing him up that one time outside  _The London Dungeon_  of all places (what and whomst??), to which made Louis want to tear his own hair out because he just wouldn't let it go. Fortunately, help was on the way in the form of his co-worker Roman, who stepped in when he started his own shift, and said bloke’s attention shifted to Roman instead, claiming that _Roman_ was in fact the high-school boyfriend.

Louis merely rolled his eyes and scarpered from the scene before the guy could change his mind again. (Poor Roman, though. He’ll rescue him another time.)

And not forgetting the rowdy—although endearingly sweet—group of young women on a hen night, who didn’t do much else other than pester Louis all night to put on a strip tease for their bride-to-be.

Which— Okay, he  _was_  tempted to do, if only to pull himself out of the sulky mood he was in seeing as he was stuck in a soiled shirt after being harassed by an overly keen customer. (The fucker came back over once he saw Louis with the girls. Jesus.)

Though, Louis didn’t, of course. Because he was working.

Obviously.

But he did give them a brief, cheeky preview anyway, which mainly involved swinging his belt about a bit and thrusting his hips in time to Britney Spears’ ' _Gimme More'_ (he wanted to search for a pole, to be honest), and then had to hastily haul his arse back over to the bar when his boss caught sight of his tad unprofessional display. (She never seemed to have anything to say when any of the others decided to take their break early. Unfair. It's not Louis' fault her boyfriend turned out to have a crush on him is it?!)

He’d been vomited on, alright? He deserved a break in this hellhole.

But there was one last silver lining.

He’d managed to get asked out by a fit blonde lad—his first date in months, mind you—when as luck would have it (or shitting bad luck in this case), his very own Irish blonde lad stumbled over to him, laughing raucously and obliviously spilling his beer right over Fit Blonde Lad and lovingly proceeded to vomit at Louis' feet.

Again.

(The Lord hadn't given him enough strength to deal with this.)

So later, when his shift finally came to an end well after four in the morning, Louis had to pull a passed out Niall into a cab with him and put him to bed like the amazing, wonderful friend he is, only to find the cab had fucking done a runner, even though he had asked very politely for the driver to please stay put for five minutes, tops.

Okay, so it ended up being like half an hour (at least... oops) because he had to rinse and wipe Niall down first but still. He couldn't catch a break.

Louis stayed at Niall’s for a bit in the end, not getting a wink of sleep because Niall woke him up at least five times in less than two hours with absolutely wretched gagging noises from his new position of hugging the toilet seat.

“ _I fucking love you, Lou,_ ” he’d slurred and, “ _You're a gorgeous man_ ,  _you know._   _I so would_ ,” he’d groaned. “ _Thank you for taking care of me_ , pet,” in between the ear-splitting spurts of sick.

He’s had better settings for declarations of love in his twenty-two years, it has to be said.

The lift doors finally open with a quiet  _ding._

Louis pads out in his red and white striped socks, holding his shoes in one hand and his keys in the other and groggily makes his way to the door of his flat. The smoky evidence of a fry-up wafts through the hallway. It makes Louis’ stomach grumble loudly and Louis is now acutely aware that:

  1. He’s about to pass out.
  2. He’s hungry.
  3. He’s about to seriously pass the fuck out.
  4. Did he mention he was hungry?



So now Louis is standing outside his own flat at half-six in the morning and smelling distinctly like Niall's sick and cheap, stale cologne while his fingers fumble to find the right key.

Though when he looks up to put his key in the hole, he notices the pink post-it note stuck next to the doorknob.

Louis squints.

**_Hi!_ **

**_Baked a batch of cookies too large for just me, so I thought I'd leave you some :)_ **

**_H, 28B_ **

And lo and behold, there is in fact a Tupperware container of what indeed appears to be a batch of very attractive chocolate chip cookies left on his doorstep—which coincidentally happen to be his favourite.

Hmm. He’s never spoken to any of his neighbours before, so Louis is both touched and a little weirded out by this seemingly spontaneous kind gesture, half-convinced they've been spiked with something bordering on illegal or poisonous or both.

But, no, that can’t be right. He’s barely around to piss anyone off enough to want to kill him. He’s got no time to collect haters, what with being asleep during most of the day. And screw that, anyway. Louis’ a hoot. He’s adorable, if he does say so himself.

He crouches down to pick up the gift, stumped as to who this mysterious 'H' is and why he would have left these cookies for Louis. He looks around the hallway and nobody else’s door has a post-it on it. Unless, they’ve already retrieved their cookies from this H in person and Louis was the only one on the floor who wasn’t in to accept them.

He tries to think about who he knows around here, and whether any of their names begin with 'H' but comes up with nothing. He does recognise the door number and is seventy-five percent sure a young guy lives there. Not that they've ever spoken before, really. But he vaguely recalls that the guy was very pretty to look at. But that must have been months ago when he first moved in, before Louis started his job at the nightclub and became a night owl. 

It’s just when he gets back up that he hears a commotion behind one of the doors on the opposite side of the hallway.

28B.

A loud “shit!” immediately follows the crash.

Louis glances curiously behind him as a door abruptly swings open. There’s more hectic rustling, more hushed swearing, and he can see the bits and pieces of smashed plates scattered across the pine wooden flooring of the flat, a dustpan and brush immediately starting to sweep up the mess in his line of vision, revealing the owner of a pair of legs that seem to last for days, clad in a pair of old skool Vans.

Louis catalogues the frankly stunning young man's appearance; he’s dressed in a faded, purple plaid shirt that has at least three of the buttons undone and several rips and holes on the sleeves, black skinny jeans so tight they could pass for leggings (maybe they are), and he’s got a frankly magnificent mop of wavy brown hair that falls just atop his shoulders. He’s very slight, slender andꟷ

Louis doesn’t even realise he’s been staring quite so blatantly until he’s bolted back to reality by the man clearing his throat.

“Huh?” Louis yelps, eyes wide and mouth agape, almost dropping the cookies, his shoes and his keys. He pointedly closes it.

“Sorry,” the man says—well, _boy_ really—if his cherubic features are anything to go by. His voice is a deep, raspy drawl like he’s not long been awake, and doesn’t really match his face where a small smile tugs at his very appealing, huge raspberry pink lips (is he wearing some kind of lipstick? He has to be. Those things are impossibly _pink_ ), “about all that. For the noise," he says quietly. "At least you weren’t sleeping. Though, I’m pretty sure I’ve woken up the rest of the floor now,” he grimaces.

Louis stares.

“You’re right, you are lucky I wasn’t asleep, or I would have murdered you.”

The boy blinks.

“You know, what with it being _quite_  early on a Sunday morning,” he teases.

Then the boy smiles, sheepish, and Louis grins back easily, charmed.

“I’m Louis."

The boy stares for a second, then says, "I'm Harry."

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” Harry replies, smile growing.

"So, what was all that in there? Had an accident, did we?” Louis asks, amused, suddenly a bit more awake.

“Yeah, just a bit," Harry laughs easily, lowering his voice. He leaves the doorframe and makes his way over to Louis in two long strides, politely holding out his hand. Louis takes it with his free one, swallowing down the shot of adrenaline that whirs through his flesh as Louis’ small hand is engulfed with Harry’s larger, albeit clammy one. Harry beams down at him. "I pretend I’m extremely agile and full of grace but in reality, I’m like, a human Bambi. Can’t really control my own limbs.”

Louis laughs. “I don’t think we’ve really met before have we?” 

Something flickers in Harry's face, his wide dimpled grin faltering slightly. "Uhm, no. No, we haven’t, unfortunately. I’ve, um. Seen you around before in passing, but you seem to sleep during the daytime a lot? And you always disappear by the early evening, so I’ve never managed to catch you to say more than a quick hello. Oh, those are from me by the way.”

Louis looks down at the container of cookies in his arm.

“Oh! _You're_ in 28B?" Harry nods, pleased. "Well, thanks, Harry," he smiles. "They're my favourite. Nice coincidence, that." Harry bites on his lip, seemingly trying to suppress another grin. Cute. "Been deliberately trying to catch me, have you?” Louis’ eyes glint with mischief.

Harry presses his lips together. “Maybe.”

“Maybe,” Louis repeats. “I see. Okay, alright,” he smirks, nodding.

Harry gives his hand one last squeeze before he lets it go, teeth sinking into his lip again but he’s smiling. "You work at a nightclub, right?" he asks, curious.

“Yeah,” Louis nods, conscious of the loss of contact from Harry’s warm, ringed hand as he drops it and proceeds to run it through his long waves, watches in fascination as Harry absently touches the ends briefly, patting a few ringlets that are visible, little chestnut corkscrew curls. “I work in a nightclub in the West End. So, my schedule mainly consists of late-night shifts and I work through most nights, and catch up on sleep during the day,” he sighs. “It’s tiring, and it's not exactly ideal, but it pays the bills, I suppose. I spend the rest of the time sketching, really,” he admits.

He’s not sure why he’s told Harry that. He barely tells anyone about any of the artwork and comic strips he draws on the side. Definitely doesn’t let people  _see_  his work either. Other than Niall, of course.

Harry’s eyebrows shoot up in interest. “Oh, yeah? Do you like to draw? Are you into art?”

“Nothing too sophisticated, I’m afraid. Other than the greats. Mostly cartoons and comics,” Louis laughs, "but I did take GCSE Art. Does that count?”

Harry responds with a grin. "Sure."

“Well," Louis giggles.  _Giggles_. God. "Me and a good mate of mine are actually working on an original comic strip together, when we have free time, that is. We’re hoping someone might take pity on us and have a look at the thing one of these days. You know, to get a second opinion. See if it’s anywhere half decent enough to be published somewhere. Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Wow, that sounds amazing,” Harry says, sounding genuinely supportive for a practical stranger. “Really. I hope it works out for you.” He smiles, such clear dimples in his cheeks that it makes Louis’ chest flutter, suddenly feeling blanketed in warmth after the night he’s had. “Maybe you could show me some of them some...” he trails off, as though catching himself. His brows pinch for a moment before the frown is wiped away by another pressed lip smile.

“Thanks," Louis smiles. "I appreciate it, and yeah, maybe I could show you.” A beat. “Sometime." It’s hot, suddenly. Louis feels incredibly hot.

“No, yeah,” Harry nods vigorously. “You’re welcome.”

A brief stretch of silence follows. Louis clears his throat, unsure.

“So, having some trouble indoors?” He tilts his chin to gesture toward the bin bag on the floor of Harry’s surprisingly empty flat. Huh. He leans forward to the side and notices an array of cardboard boxes lined up against the window.

“Doing some spring cleaning? Sorry. I’m being nosy.”

Harry’s gaze follows to where Louis’ looking. “Hmm? Oh. No, I’m... moving, actually,” he says hesitantly.

Louis’ smile slips off his face and splatters to the ground.

Moving? Oh, damn. Not too far, he hopes.

“Oh,” he says flatly, unable to hide the disappointment in his voice.

“Yeah,” Harry grimaces slightly, but still keeps his smile in place as he distractedly rubs the back of his neck. “I finally get to meet you properly and it’s the day before I go,” he sighs, almost wistfully. “The timing could have gone better.”

It sounds like Harry’s thought about this before and it sends a surge of hope and excitement through Louis but then:

“Day before?” Louis repeats, high pitched. “You’re moving  _tomorrow_?”

Harry nods minutely, a sad tilt to his mouth. “Early in the morning, yeah," he confirms. “So, today, really. But technically, tomorrow. Yeah.”

“Shit,” Louis accidentally says aloud, gaining a quiet laugh from Harry as his eyes bore into him. They’re green. A soft, pale green that almost looks a little bit grey like an oncoming storm. These eyes have been on the opposite side of Louis’ door and he didn’t even realise.

Fuck you, universe.

You could have been a bit more helpful here.

“How long have you lived here, then?” Louis asks.

Harry’s bottom lip slides over his top, a tiny crease in the middle of his brows as he thinks. “About a year.”

“What?” Louis squawks, catching his mouth with his hand. Harry laughs quietly. “What?” he repeats, at a more acceptable volume. “You’ve been here all this time just living opposite me, with your long and glorious locks and those legs that go own for days, and those dimples,”—Harry starts to giggle, scrunching his nose, cheeks turning crimson—"I mean... they're just begging to be—“ his hand hovers mid-air briefly, then draws it back, catching himself, "poked."

Oh, my god. Is he actually saying these things out loud? Jesus Christ, is he drunk? Or high? Shut up, Louis. Please stop talking.

But Harry now has a high blush on each of his dimpled cheeks, and he's staring at Louis with a soft, bashful expression, his hands returning to his hair and ruffling it up, seemingly embarrassed but pleased by Louis’ word vomit. (Of course, he's embarrassed. Louis' embarrassed for himself. What is wrong with him?)

Harry scrunches up his nose again which is fucking adorable and presses those plump lips tightly together, ducking his head. Louis would really like to suck those lips into his mouth. God.

“Well, this is just really unfair.” Louis apparently has no brain to mouth filter now. Embarrassing. Sleep deprivation has clearly got to him.

“I agree,” Harry says, surprisingly seriously, gaze falling to the floor with a frown.

“Please tell me you’re only moving to somewhere equally as close by in London?” 

Harry smiles lopsidedly at Louis. “No, somewhere a bit further than that. I’m moving to New York.”

Oh, fuck. There goes the possibility that he’s found the man of his dreams for real, then. The world is a cruel, harsh place.

“Wow,” he settles on instead. “That’s... amazing, right? I've always wanted to visit New York. Lucky you, eh?”

“Yeah,” Harry beams, and Louis can’t help but beam back, what with Harry’s smiles apparently being contagious. “I’m doing a Photography course over there at NYU? I still can’t believe I actually got in. I’m so excited,” he says, heels practically bouncing on the worn, grubby carpet, hands unable to keep still as his arms come up to wrap loosely around his middle.

"That's... wow. Are you nervous?"

Harry nods earnestly. “A lot. It's scary and a bit daunting, you know? It’s like a whole new country, isn’t it?"—Louis laughs, endeared—"Well, I mean, _obviously_.” His cheeks redden. “I mean, it's not just like I'm moving to a new university over here," he smirks, "it’s a new country, a new everything that I’ll have to get used to, get to know. But I can’t wait.”

Louis is hopelessly endeared by Harry’s adorable excitement over his plans, but there’s a selfish part of Louis that can’t think about anything other than this isn’t fair. He could have met Harry plenty of times during the year before since he’s lived here, but now is the time he finally does?

They’ve been _neighbours_ all this time, for god’s sake, and they haven’t crossed paths once? Or enough for Louis to notice, at least, and ask him out on a bleeding date.

Louis tries to mask the frown that's probably working its way onto his face.

Louis really wants to get to know Harry, but he’s got no chance now he’s starting a new life across the pond, has he? What shit luck. What kind of cruel cosmic trick is this? 

He glances down at his keys in his hand, focusing on them intently and feeling the heat of Harry’s gaze on him.

“Well," he says abruptly. "Good luck, Harry,” he says sincerely, and looks back up, grinning. “I hope everything works out for you. It was really nice to meet you, however briefly," he forces a laugh. "Give me a shout if you need any help moving the rest of your stuff or anything, yeah?” Louis secretly hopes he’ll take him up on the offer, if just to see the way his cheeks dimple again. Ugh. This is bad. There's no bloody point getting attached now.

“Thank you,” Harry says as he watches Louis unlock his door and swing it open. “But I’m pretty much done with loading up everything in my car now. My mum and stepdad are going to come down to London and sort out the rest after I've gone. So, I’m all packed. Only got the necessities still lying around. Toothbrush and teabags and whatnot,” he smiles but it seems a bit forced like Louis' this time.

Louis nods, hanging onto his every drawl. “So, you're all sorted then?”

“Yep. All sorted.”

They stare at each other as Louis hovers in his doorway, not wanting to tear his eyes away or stop talking yet to this green-eyed boy who’s so lovely and bashful and pretty, and ensnaring Louis' attention just by existing.

“Cool, well. I’m knackered so I’m gonna—” he gestures to his flat. “Take a long snooze. And I’m sure I stink of my mate’s vomit still so.”

That earns a short laugh from Harry, eyes bulging momentarily. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes. Twice.”

“Shit,” Harry giggles, covering his mouth with his fist. “That’s grim.”

“It’s not funny, Harry. It was a massacre.” Harry just bursts into more hysterics, then claps his hand over his mouth upon realising they’re still standing in a quiet hallway where other people are likely still sleeping early on a Sunday morning. The day meant for rest. But Louis can’t contain his laughter and joins in.

“You don’t smell bad to me, though. I think you're fine."

“Sure,” Louis says, rolling his eyes.

Harry beams.

Once their giggles have quietened down, Louis finally brings himself to leave. “I really should get in the shower.”

“Oh, sorry! Yeah, sure.” Harry pauses, swaying on the spot before he says, “I’m glad I got to speak to you before I leave, Louis,” he admits, a faint blush creeps onto his cheeks. “It would have been a shame if we never got to say hi properly, at least."

“Yeah. Still don’t know how it’s possible we never managed to cross see each other more often." Harry's eyes dart away from his for a second. "We literally live opposite each other,” Louis laughs. “Or lived,” he corrects.

“I know,” Harry says, pushing back a stray curl behind his ear. "Sucks."

"Yeah," Louis answers softly.

“It was nice to meet you, though,” he says, sounding so genuine about it, too. “And good luck with everything, Louis. Hope your comic book gets published one day,” he smiles, and Louis doesn’t want this to be the first and only conversation he’ll ever have with Harry.

Tough shit, he supposes.

“Thanks, Harry, and you too. I hope New York City treats you well. Have an awesome time at uni there. And don’t join any frats. That’s just asking for trouble.” Harry laughs. “Oh, and thanks again for the cookies," he lifts the container and lets his smile linger. 

"No problem, Louis." Harry smiles once more, feet dragging back across the ugly, beige carpet in the hallway as he makes to leave. “Bye," he says, and he gives him a cute little wave.

“Bye,” Louis whispers, when he’s faced with Harry’s back to him, returning to his empty flat.

When he's showered and stuffed his face with cereal, Louis collapses into bed with the need to place a curse on the entire universe with a voodoo doll, and he dreams of kind green eyes and a bright smile that could power up a whole city as he finally drifts to sleep.

 


	2. The Date

 

Louis wakes up around eight hours later, feeling just as tired as he was when he fell fitfully into unconsciousness early this morning, but he's awake now and he can never get back to sleep once he's woken up so.

Time to get up, he guesses.

He rubs at his sleep-crusted eyes, stretching out his weary limbs. His tongue is dry and in dire need of a hot cup of tea, but he lies there for a bit, flashes of sketches and colours and vague outlines sticking themselves to the backs of his eyelids as he mentally plans out the next page of his comic strip.

He groggily manages to force himself out of bed, stepping over his unwashed clothes that are currently strewn around every corner of his tip of a bedroom floor (there’s definitely lamented flooring under this crap somewhere, he knows there is). There's also piles of who-knows-what-kind-of-rubbish coating every available surface, stacks of books built like towers on either side of his bed on the night stands, and his yellow lamp, the one he bought from IKEA that rainy afternoon with whatshisname is tipped on its side for some reason unbeknownst to Louis. 

His sketchesꟷmostly half-finished comic outlines and pages are stuck to his pale blue walls, framing the full-length mirror hooked next to his wardrobe (we don't talk about the landslide in there). There’s an England football team calendar hung on the back of his door (because clearly, he’s still thirteen), and photos of his sisters and mum are perched in simple white frames atop his multi-coloured, felt-tip-infused desk, random song lyrics written in Sharpie scrawled over the surface, along with a few silly (and rude) doodles.

He trudges through the cluttered mess that is his life, almost trips over a cable he has no idea he had or where it leads to and traipses barefoot into the kitchen like a zombie.

Which is no better off. Like, at all.

“Fuck,” Louis mutters under his breath, scrubbing his face with his hands. He still hasn't figured out how to work the bloody dishwasher that’s recently been fitted (he says ‘recent’, it was three months ago) so into the sink for temporary storage they go.

Louis really needs to sort his life out. No guy’s going to want to come back to this dump. To see dirty plates and used mugs, disregarded tea bags and bowls of half-eaten, soggy cereal brimming over the sink's sides, practically overflowing. Yikes. (Louis cringes and adds a mental note to make a start on that load later.)

Louis’ bare feet stick to the cool floor, and he yawns, drawn out, suddenly plagued with the niggling feeling that he’s just woken up from a dream that he can't remember, a pleasant dream, mind, poking insistently at his cracked cells, distracting him from the screeching noise of the kettle he's absently switched on reflexively. Louis frowns to himself, trying to remember, reaches up on his tippy-toes to retrieve a new box of teabags and—

Harry.

The neighbour he met for the first time yesterday, after finding out he’s been living not only in the same building with him for the last year, but literally opposite Louis’ own flat. 

That Harry. That gorgeous baby Tarzan with cherubic features Harry, with that long cluster of wavy brown curls Harry, and that pair of deep green, lighthouse eyes that stared into Louis with such intensity, it was like he was staring into Louis’ bloody soul Harry.

Yeah _, that_ Harry.

Oh, god. Bugger it. Did he really have to make himself remember this? As the disappointment comes leaking back, he's fairly certain nothing is going to better his mood today, on his first day off in ages, unless he forgets that pretty, polite boy with lips to die for.

Because he’s also the boy who's-moving-to-New York-to-attend-university Harry.

Today, or tomorrow, depending how you look at it. Either way he’s got this one chance with Harry, this one day to make an impression, to spend time with him and make sure he's not just another face forgotten, and he’s certainly not going to waste another single second. 

You know, if Harry wants to, that is. Or as long as he’s not busy, or hasn’t left the flat yet, and if he has, well... that's it, then.

What on earth is he even talking about?

But the unpleasant thought of not ever seeing that lovely stranger again sparks Louis into action before he rationalises any part of this at all being a stupid idea.

Louis drops the spoon he’s picked up and partially skids across the floor into the bathroom, ridding himself of his clothes at lightning speed and hops into the shower.

But what's he doing? Harry's literally going to be on the opposite side of the Atlantic Ocean in twenty-four hours, so he really should just stop this before he does something stupid like knock on his door and ask him out. 

Which he shouldn't.

He really, really shouldn't.

But Louis never does think before he acts. Instead his whole system runs on unadulterated, feverish emotion. And it's maybe a little presumptuous of him, and extremely stupid, and ridiculous and bloody pointless because let’s face it, Louis is going to break his own heart if he ends up liking this boy any more than he already does based on a first impression.

But, oh. Louis is already moving. Emotional consequences be damned, apparently.

When he’s dressed in incredible speed for his track-record, Louis checks out his hair—styled, messy fringe—in his bedroom mirror, shrugging on a lightweight bomber jacket over the top of his short sleeved white button up, pushes the sleeves up to his elbows and heads over to Harry’s door, praying he’s still there and hasn't left already to do any last minute goodbyes with his actual friends or anything that doesn’t involve Louis. Which he absolutely should be doing because this is madness, this isꟷ

He’s about to knock on 28B when the door swings open, Louis’ arm still poised mid-air.

Harry freezes as soon as his gaze meets Louis’.

Louis blinks.

And Harry parts his lips slightly, as though he's about to speak, then pointedly shuts it, continuing to stare at Louis with pink cheeks, his sleek chocolate waves tied up in a neat bun atop his head, and a pair of large, leopard-print glasses perched on his nose, and if all that wasn’t enough to get Louis’ heart racing at an alarming rate, he notices Harry is wearing a flimsy, cream  _sheer_  shirt, barely done up, and exposing the gorgeous planes of his defined chest.

Louis' mouth’s gone dry. Like sand paper level dry. 

Harry is a goddamn vision. Blinding light is shining around his silhouette, fucking doves are practically flying out from behind his arse, fireworks are sparking through the roof.

Louis blinks again.

Harry's clutching his phone in a white knuckled grip, two of his fingernails on each hand endearingly painted coral and gold, his plush crimson mouth agape and staring at Louis with somewhat startled, striking jade eyes that practically gleam as they bore into Louis, unblinking. And he seems pleased? Dazed? He looks sort of happy to see him? Sort of. If he’d just blink.

That massive mouth is certainly beginning to quirk in the corners, at least.

But Harry has still not blinked. Not once. Okay. Is he alive?

“Hey,” Louis starts lamely, his hand involuntarily giving him a little wave like a five-year-old, because his brain has actually turned to mush. Complete and utter sludgy, gooey mush. Whatever that is. Some kind of gross tasting porridge? Yeah. Well. The stuff is currently filling every nook and cranny of Louis' brain and as a result, is it causing a system error in forming actual functioning words? Yes. Looks like it.

Seconds tick by.

"Uhm, I was—” he says, shifting on the spot for several agonizing seconds, while Harry merely stands there with that same surprised expression stuck to his pretty, bemused face (and still has not blinked once. Is he okay?) desperately trying to catch the words stuck on his tongue like the damn tape he uses to wrap presents in a piss poor manner.

Finally, words come.

“I’m going out to grab lunch, well, a very late lunch,” Louis smiles, self-conscious there’s a high probability he’s blushing furiously, “and I thought perhaps, I dunno," he shrugs, feigning airiness, "you might want to come with me? To get some food? Unless you have plans— You do remember me, right?” he asks warily, watching Harry’s face barely twitch, eyes fixed and continuing to stare at him. He’s _still_  not blinked. “From yesterday? You gave me cookies? Which were perfect by the way. Delicious.” He'd wolfed down three this morning.

“No,” Harry blurts out. “I mean, yes! Of course, I know who you are," he corrects, chuckling, fiddling with the very open collar of his shirt, awkward and blushing and just so endearing, "I meant I don’t have plans. For lunch. Or food related dates of any kind. Not that I’m assuming this is a date! But, um, yes, I’d um.... love to get food. To have. To eat. With you," he stammers. "Yeah, let’s get some food. I can’t think of any better way to spend my time.” Harry freezes, eyes widening. “Uh, yeah." Harry smiles. It's lopsided and bashful and his cheeks are burning with an alarming shade of crimson. “I mean—" he closes his eyes, puffing out a flustered breath. “Oh, my god,” he mutters under his breath. “Fuck.”

“Are you okay?” Louis laughs, eyes sparkling with mirth. Harry's just so cute all flustered and nervous, isn’t he? The most adorable cupcake marshmallow he's ever come across and yet still he manages to look like a sex god. (Oh god. He's needs to stop.)

"That sounded—Oh, I don’t even know,” Harry chuckles, embarrassed, shaking his head. "Sorry. That was a mess." He grins hopelessly. “I’m a mess.”

Louis can feel the grin stretching over his own face. “You are a bit of a mess. In the least offensive way possible.”

Harry scoffs.

(And are those glittery, cowboy boots? Yes. This boy is most certainly something.)

"Okay, so to make it absolutely certain, because I didn't  _quite_  catch your answer there," Louis smirks. "You _would_  like to get something to eat with me?"

"Yes, Louis. I would very much like that," Harry smiles.

"Right, okay. Good." Louis announces. "Well, then. Shall we?" he gestures.

Harry nods eagerly. "We shall," he says, a dopey smile on his face before he briefly falters in his tracks. "Oh, wait. Hang on for one sec!" he says and dashes back inside. Louis waits about six seconds before Harry appears in the doorway again, a camera dangling around his neck. It's one of those proper DSLR cameras with a proper lens that you have to play around with or whatever. Which obviously makes sense, since Harry told him he'd be studying photography at NYU. 

"Planning on doing some outdoor photoshoots, are we?" Louis points to the camera, his other hand swiping the bit of fringe that's fallen into his eyes. Harry momentarily stills, seemingly just watching Louis, tracking the movement of Louis' hand.

"Yeah...you never know what's out there... It all goes towards my portfolio," Harry nods as he locks his front door. "Fancy being my project, Louis?" he says, and he sounds so hopeful and young, a coy smile dancing on his lips.

Louis is charmed. "Ah, well, we'll have to see, won't we?" he says, making his way to the lift. "I don't let just anyone take my picture, you know." 

The doors ping open and Louis watches as Harry dashes after him in the lift's mirror. He slides up beside him, silver ringed fingers splayed over his camera, his eyes stuck to Louis. Harry's about a head taller, and Louis smirks at Harry's transfixed gaze flitting all over him.

"Have I got something on my face?"

"No," Harry says quietly, biting his lip to suppress another dopey grin. "It's just a really good one," he says, voice a deep drawl, face completely honest. Louis is startled into giggles, covers his mouth as he stares at the lift's silver ceiling before the doors spring open and he darts out, feeling flirty and flattered, a beaming Harry hot on his heels.

**

When they get outside, walking into step alongside each other on the pavement, trees incredibly green, birds chirping in the background, and a slew of cars passing them in the road, Harry nudges Louis' arm with his. "So, where we going to lunch, maestro?" he asks, strolling beside him with long limbs, and pointy glitter boots, and his sheer lace shirt, bathed in sunlight and gold and the shade of the blooming green leaves of the trees. They match his eyes.

Louis raises his eyebrows, amused. “Maestro? I don’t recall telling you I was a genius, Harry? How ever did you know?” Louis hums tunefully.

“Because you are an artiste, are you not?” Harry replies brightly, an exaggerated air of flamboyance bouncing off of his lean body, hitting Louis in the face and looking every inch the sophisticated, ostentatious, artsy student. Then he pulls out a lollypop.

A lollypop. Out of his pocket and begins to suck on it, pulling it back out with a slick pop.

And what. Where did this boy come from? He’s ridiculous, wonderful. 

“You’re pretty odd,” Louis says, but there’s no ill intent behind it, just sheer endearment at this boy’s coquettish charisma and how he’s practically goddamn sparkling in the sunshine. "I think that word's in relation to music, though."

Harry shrugs. "How do I know you're not musically inclined, too?"

"Good point," Louis smirks.

“Are you?”

“I like singing. So. I guess I am.”

Harry grins. “Me too.” Then, “Hey, what about a picnic?” he suddenly asks, an unsure but hopeful smile curving his slick, red lips.

“A picnic? That’s a bit serious for a couple of strangers, isn’t it?” he teases.

“No," Harry insists, proud, "we can get some croissants, cupcakes, coffee. It’ll be nice, and we can have it in the park because it’s a nice day, right?"

Louis stares at Harry with a mixture of delight and mild bewilderment, because this boy is exactly that. Delightful. Full of surprises. Cute quirks and a blush that kisses his creamy cheeks whenever Louis laughs at him.

“Is that too weird?" he asks, smile faltering ever so slightly. "Do you just want to find a sandwich bar or a teashop or something? Because we can totally do that, if you like?”

“No, Harry, I’d love to have a picnic with you. It would be my pleasure," he says, voice soft and completely willing to indulge this boy in whatever endeavour he decides on. Because of course he does. He’ll take every second he can get. And feeding the ducks doesn’t sound completely unappealing, despite his phobia of birds, but hey, as long as that dimpled smile stays put on Harry’s gorgeous face, he’ll suck it up.

“Oh,” he says. “Cool,” he beams, and Louis is genuinely worried Harry’s face is going to split in two.

**

They stroll leisurely toward Hyde Park, exchanging amused smiles and giddy laughs when they catch the other staring. Harry’s both ridiculous and adorable, dimples licking at his silly, cherubic grin. He's also devastatingly sexy, strutting his hips like he’s some kind of model, hair artfully still in its bun and now using his leopard-print specs (only this boy) as some kind of headband.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty,” Harry replies. “You?”

“Twenty-two.”

“Oh, an older man,” Harry smirks.

Louis huffs out a laugh.

“So, do you do this for a living, too? Other than wanting to study it?” Louis asks, as Harry’s already snapping pictures left, right and centre as they walk around. Of what, Louis’ not sure. There’s mainly just a lot of trees about. Then Harry spots the flower beds, and oh, of course Harry loves flowers. It matches his sunny, cute personality on the surface, so it figures.

Harry smirks, holding up his camera. “Well, if taking photos for family weddings and christenings and things counts, then yeah. To gain some experience. But yeah, I guess I just do this on the side of whatever course I’m doing at uni.”

“You’ve taken a few?” Louis asks. He doesn’t take Harry as someone who doesn’t take his education seriously. Or maybe he’s just not found what he wants to do yet. It’s not like he actually knows the boy yet.

Harry sighs, carefully letting his camera drop around his neck, resting against the lace of his shirt. It’s distracting. “I did Law at Manchester for about a year, but it wasn’t really for me, so I dropped out. Mum wasn’t too pleased, but I applied last year to NYU as I wanted to do my degree abroad and thankfully I got in, and…” Harry pauses, fiddling with the focus on his camera. “Photography just seemed like the right choice. It’s been something I’ve loved for years now so... yeah,” he smiles, absently squeezing his lips with a finger.

“Well, as long as you love it, that’s the main thing. Pursue what you love, Harry. It’s the only way to live,” Louis smiles at the ground, and when he looks up, Harry is beaming at him.

It makes Louis’ heart flutter and… oh, boy.

**

They spend the afternoon falling into easy conversations and cheeky banter, exchanging coy glances and loaded smirks, their hands accidentally brushing each other’s far too many times over the course of their butter croissants and red velvet cupcakes that Harry insisted on paying for.

Louis is watching Harry with a sun-kissed smile, soaks up the way Harry runs his fingers through his hair and absently touches the ends, the way he crosses his legs daintily as he lounges on his arms, holding himself up as he spreads his long body over the grass, eyes completely engrossed in every word that slips out of Harry's slow, bumbling mouth because he’s in fucking awe of this boy before him, who bestows the most wonderfully bright and beaming smiles upon Louis, almost like Louis is the only person in the goddamn world.

Louis kind of feels like he is, and that’s all because of the way this boy, Harry, is staring at him like he just told him he can do magic.

Harry might be magic, with his wide, childlike moonbeams and his silky, chestnut tousled tresses, and his eyes that may literally hold the wonders of the universe, as well as the stars and the moon and see into Louis’ very soul.

Fuck, is he waxing poetic on this boy or what? Embarrassing. He’s only known the guy for... eleven hours now? And he’s only interacted with him for about three of those, at most.

“Can I take a picture of you?” Harry suddenly asks, as Louis’ in the middle of plucking a daisy out of the grass of the park they’re sprawled in, the wrappers from the food disregarded and their coffee cups empty.

“Oh? Of me?” Louis checks behind him, just to make sure he was talking about him. “Are you sure?”

Harry laughs. No, Harry  _giggles_. A short burst of delighted bubbly chuckles graces Louis’ ears and it might be his favourite sound in the world already. Good lord. Get a grip, Tomlinson. He’s just met the guy. Let’s take a few steps back and not start picking out the colour scheme for the wedding just yet. Or at all. “Of course, I mean you,” he beams, dimples making craters in each of his creamy cheeks. “Who else here is possibly as stunning as you?” he murmurs, a knowing emerald flicker in his eye before he’s looking away, and down, smirking.

Hideously charming little thing, isn’t he? Louis might be done for.

“God, mate,” Louis grins, tipping backwards and flattening himself on the grass, arms curled above his head. He goes to wipe a wisp of fringe out of his eyes when Harry’s wrist is encircling his, ever so gently gripping it, thumb lightly brushing over Louis’ erratic pulse point. He must know what he’s doing to him, flashing another one of those cheeky lopsided smiles. He lets go and with one finger, softly sweeps the strand of hair away from Louis’ eyes and across his forehead, smile pressed and small but so, so sweet.

Sweet like candy.

“You’re something else,” Louis blinks coquettishly. Harry retrieves his camera and brings it to his eye socket, squeezing the other eye tightly shut, grin still in place, the sun beating down on his milky, porcelain skin. Harry is quite possibly the most beautiful work of art Louis has ever seen. He’s the one who should be snapping photographs of him.

“Trying to get me in my best light, are you? It’s a hard job, I warn you.”

Harry scoffs. “Every angle of you is exquisite, so no, it’s not hard at all,” Harry comments nonchalantly, continuing to click and click, switching the angle of his camera every now and again. “Not even slightly, he murmurs.

Louis tries to control his face. His hot cheeks likely give it away, though.

“You’re gonna make this all brooding and pretentious, aren’t you? Probably the type who loves the black and white aesthetic,” Louis says, rolling his eyes, watching him, “because oh, colour is too mainstream!”

Harry lifts the camera briefly away from his face. “How did you guess?” he sings mockingly. "It's just more classic,” he shrugs, pouting.

Louis rolls his eyes again. "So, what's this project of yours called? Does it have a name?"

Harry slips off his camera for a moment, pondering.

"The Louis," Harry smirks.

Louis pulls an unattractive face. 

“Stop it. You’re obscuring that beautiful face,” Harry pouts, swatting at him. "You're ruining the art, Louis!" he whines, dramatic and childlike. It's disgustingly adorable. He's a brat.

“Oh, so if I do this,” Louis makes the most ridiculous cross-eyed face he can muster, "it’s going to mess up your portfolio, is it? Ruin that hipster theme?”

“Yes,” Harry frowns, pout deepening.

“Too bad.” And Louis snatches the camera away, begins to snap pictures of Harry instead, laughing manically, practically guffawing and then whinging like a child, covering his face with his big, smooth hands.

“No!” Harry squeals, rolling around on the grass as Louis shoves the camera in his face.

Eventually Louis relents, and he topples over onto Harry's front, tipping his chin and resting it on Harry’s heaving, warm chest, knees bracketing Harry's hips.

He dares to run a single finger down the dip of Harry’s open shirt, caressing the skin and feeling a thrill run down his spine as Harry flinches, breathes out sharply and gazes up at him, smile replaced with an open and intrigued expression, eyes following Louis’ finger as his chin dips down.

Louis stops at Harry’s belt, flits his eyes up to his.

“There’s a funfair open not far from here soon,” Harry suddenly says, making Louis blink. “Do you want to go?” His tone is hopeful and his big green eyes blink owlishly up at him.

“Okay,” Louis says instantly, unable to tear his gaze from Harry's lips. “Sure."

Harry's face breaks into a pleased beam, verging on a tad cocky. Louis is hypnotized. "Good. Want to take you on the Ferris Wheel and hope it breaks down. Then I get you all to myself," Harry says, silky smooth, barely above a whisper, face mild and entirely too sure of himself, lips quirking in a kittenish stare, chest rising and falling in a jerky rhythm, giving away the pretence of his confidence.

Louis gulps, very aware all of a sudden that he's sitting in Harry's lap. A surge of mischievousness comes over him and he delicately slides his hips over Harry's. Harry stares up at him, obviously affected, tongue sneaking out to lick over his lips, eyes never leaving Louis. "I thought it was clear you do already?"

And then Louis' getting up, brushing himself off and flicking his hair. He smirks as he holds out his hands to Harry, hauling him up. He's a little unsteady and slightly flushed as he watches Louis with a curious gaze.

Louis holds out his hand. Harry takes it at once.

They fit perfectly, warm skin snug against warm skin.

**

Several plastic cups of lager, multiple tries on the game stalls (in which Louis was determined to win Harry the biggest teddy bear there. He failed to win one, but he'll get it eventually, even if he has to cheat), and a ghost train ride later, (where Louis screamed the loudest and most over the top just to hear Harry's delighted, hysterical cackles) and the queue for the Ferris Wheel seems to be moving along faster than expected.

They’re being ushered into a carriage and settle into it as the cream painted, metal bar is lowered atop their laps securely. Harry is oddly quiet, barely touching his candyfloss bucket tucked between his knees, and Louis’ going to do something to remedy that.

“Hey,” he says, nudging Harry’s leg with his knee, “you okay, there?”

Harry nods, eyes widening as the carriage lifts off the ground and starts to rotate upwards. “Yeah, I um,” he mumbles, not making the slightest movement in his seat. He exhales a shaky breath. “I just... have a slight fear of heights?" 

Oh, god.

“What?" Louis squeaks.

"It's fine. I'll be alright in a minute," Harry says uncertainly, eyeing the ground nervously.

"Why didn’t you say so? I wouldn’t have made you get on if I knew! But may I remind you that _you_ were the one who suggested this earlier."

"I was trying to woo you," Harry frowns. "Anyway, I've changed my mind," he mutters, eyes widening as they get higher.

"Decided I'm not worth it?” Louis teases.

Harry smiles despite himself. “No, course not. I wanted to get you up here," he says lowly, eyes flitting to Louis' lips, "but you were so excited, and I didn’t want to let you down. You’re so cute when you’re excited,” he says so forlornly, and Louis laughs. He looks better now he’s focusing on Louis, less painfully pale and less like he thinks he’s going to fall to his death. Maybe all he needs is a little bit of a distraction.

The wheel starts to move a bit faster in one swooping, rotation, before it abruptly comes to a halt mid-air, Louis and Harry's carriage being one of the highest.

Oh dear.

"Oh, god, what?" Harry yelps, hand grabbing Louis' inner thigh. "I didn't  _actually_  want it to break down!"

“Hey, hey," Louis says softly, grasping his wrist. "Since you've been good to face your fears for me, how about I give you a reward?”

“A reward?” Harry repeats slowly. Before a small smirk appears on his pink lips.

Louis sneaks his hand into Harry’s lap, inching closer to _that_  part of his anatomy. Harry lets out a surprised gasp when Louis begins applying soft bursts of pressure against his dick through the fabric of his jeans, Harry leaning into him, gripping onto Louis' jacket.

“Oh, my God," Harry gasps, mouth forming into a smile.

“What?" Louis shrugs, feigning coyness. "We’re up in the air now. No one can see.”

“You’re being naughty,” Harry says, voice deep and gravelly, eyes fluttering as Louis' palms him more deliberately, lolling into his space, when Harry gently encircles Louis' wrist. "As much as I like this though, I'd rather kiss you up here, if that's okay?" he murmurs.

"I think that'd be alright, yeah," Louis grins.

Harry cups his face and presses soft lips firmly to his, and Louis has to bunch his hands in Harry's flimsy shirt to anchor himself, feeling light and floaty as Harry's lips deepen the kiss.

They smile into it, mouths sliding together easily, Harry's open mouth slotting perfectly with Louis' as he leans in closer, one hand cupping Louis' face in a steady but gentle grip, and the other gripping the back of his neck, kissing him with more eager, fervent enthusiasm.

They dip in and out, tilting their heads as tongues tentatively explore each other's mouths. Louis gasps when Harry deepens the kiss further, bruising and insistent, tongue gliding with his, and hungrily swallowing the tiny, shrill whimpers they're both making in the backs of their throats.

"You're not so sugary sweet as you make out, are you, Harry?" Louis breathes, delirious.

“Maybe you’ll have to find out what I’m really like,” Harry smirks against his mouth, as he tugs Louis' to him by the waist, Louis scooting as close as possible, their thighs pressed together as he pulls Harry in by his neck, kissing down his chin and working his way down to his neck, mouthing at the sensitive, milky skin there, nips once and grins as Harry moans dirtily. 

"Leave me a mark to remember you by," Harry laughs breathily, eyes still closed, mouth falling open when Louis sucks hard, working to give Harry a huge reminder of the lips that were here when he inevitably has to leave Louis tonight. The thought sends a stab of something unpleasant running through his chest, but Louis pushes it down and continues to kiss Harry's neck, Harry lulling to the side as his forehead meets Louis' shoulder, seemingly completely relaxed under Louis' rapt attention, seemingly having forgotten his anxious qualms about heights completely.

"Feel dizzy," Harry slurs, turning his face into Louis' cheeks, wet, plush lips brushing and dragging across his flushed skin until he reaches Louis' ear. "You make me dizzy." There's a content smile in his tipsy voice. Louis is quite drunk himself. On Harry. "This is a genius way to distract me."

Louis hums. "There's a lot more where that came from," he says, voice husky as he pulls away, admiring the red bruise he's left on Harry's unblemished skin. He traces the pad of his finger lightly over it and Harry's hand presses around his wrist once more. His green eyes are glassy and lined with bright specks of  _want._

"I want to know it all," Harry whispers with lidded eyes, before pressing a lingering kiss against his lips.

They part with a loud smack and stare with dazed, dopey eyes, bitten grins hidden with their chins tucked into their shoulders, buzzed and electric with this newfound spark they seem to have so easily made.

Except.

They shouldn't be.

Louis shouldn't really be here with Harry at all if he were a sensible, rational person.

This is only going to sting more when he has to say goodbye. Which is quite literally by the end of the night. What's he even doing? Acting like he's embarking on a new romance. It's stupid. This is ridiculous. It's temporary. Bloody temporary. 

But Louis never did do what he was told, or what was most wise.

The Ferris wheel starts to move once more, Harry's face flickering with apprehension, and Louis quickly grabs for Harry's face and kisses it away, ignoring the fact he's already half-way to being smitten.

Terrible move, Tomlinson, he thinks.

**

“Right, then, young Harold,” Louis announces obnoxiously, extremely tipsy now on the multiple beers they’ve each consumed (and the few more they've downed in the last hour or so), clapping his unpleasantly sticky, candyfloss kissed hands together. Harry giggles manically beside him like a wild animal, a slither of the edible soft pudge of his hip exposed where his sheer shirt has ridden up. Louis' hand inadvertently brushes over the gloriously warm, bare skin as he flops it back down into the dewy grass. Tiny electric shocks spark through his fingers to the tips, tingling with a desire that very nearly leaves him breathless as his eyes gaze into Harry's.

They're like two glowing lighthouses, guiding Louis' ship safely to shore and... Louis doesn't know what to think about that.

Louis swallows the heavy feelings that drop inside his belly, feelings that are far too premature and over-the-top to be feeling remotely like this. And since he hasn't even known Harry a whole day yet, discomfort and something else uncomfortably lodged in his throat. “This is your last night on British soil, and we are going to make it the best night of your life.”

Harry squeezes his eyes tight, lying on his back. Innocent, unabashed giggles pour out of his raspberry pink mouth, spreading warmth through Louis’ senses like he’s listening to his favourite song at maximum volume, with the car windows all the way down, and speeding down a motorway at midnight. 

The evening air is still particularly humid, but there’s a faint breeze caressing their lidded eyes and flushed cheeks. The sky’s a gorgeous canvas of pink and orange and mauve, ‘ _Sweet Disposition_ ’ playing faintly in the background as the noise and bustle of the funfair carries on behind them, and Louis doesn't think he's ever been inside a moment this perfect.

He's been using the word 'perfect' a lot, but it is. 

Louis zeroes in on Harry’s adorable two front teeth, knows all too well that his own eyes are crinkling with fondness in the corners, the dimpled boy lying next to him. “Oi,” he says, indignant. “Why are you laughing? I’m serious. We have to make this night legendary.”

Harry lolls his head to the side, facing Louis. Louis mirrors him. "It won't be my last night here _ever_ ," he smiles, poking a finger in Louis' cheek. "And you've said that like three times tonight. I'm still waiting for it happen," he smirks. "Haven't got long left. Tick tock, Louis."

“S’ not illegal to repeat one’s self is it? And hey! Cheeky shit," Louis squeaks, tickling Harry's ribs. Harry squirms, hands trapped between them as they thrash on the grass, limbs tangling everywhere. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Harry screams between hysterical giggles. "It's been amazing so far, truly incredible! Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

Louis lets him go, albeit reluctantly, rolling back onto his side. Harry's chest rises and falls, happy and beautiful and like he's caught inside a dream, and Louis' reminded once again that Harry will have to leave soon. 

Then Harry moves back onto his side too, so that they're facing each other, side by side, both their hands clutched to their chests.

A close-mouthed smile curves it’s way across crimson lips, eyes glittering with the reflections of the neon, rainbow coloured fairground lights, and with something  _else_.

Something Louis doesn’t want to think about, because he can't keep him, can he?

This is so dumb. Louis is ridiculous.

“Are you excited for tomorrow?” he asks, to just fill the heavy silence that’s fallen between them. It feels like there's an invisible live wire connecting them, the possibility that it could explode at any moment hanging there in the air like a red flag, and his face is so close to Harry’s, the air so heady and palpable and thick, Louis almost catches his breath, his heart beating erratically inside his chest, can hear it pounding in his ears it’s that loud, as he waits for Harry to speak. He wonders whether Harry can hear it.

“Scared, I think. Mostly,” Harry says faintly. He's not smiling anymore, instead there's a tiny crease between his eyebrows. It’s the most serious look he’s seen on Harry thus far.

Louis swallows.

"Of what?" 

Harry doesn't answer.

"Of moving?" Louis presses. "Hey," he starts, mindlessly taking one of Harry's hands that’s curled up under his chin and squeezes it reassuringly. It causes Harry to glance up and find his eyes. "Look, I know it's a terrifying prospect on paper, moving abroad and living in a whole new country, away from everyone and everything you know, that you’re used to, and I know you'll miss your family and your friends a lot but," he moves an inch closer, "when you get there, you're gonna love it, Harry. I promise you. You're gonna meet so many new, hopefully interesting and cool, probably insufferably pretentious people," he mocks, and Harry snorts, smiling a little, "and they’re all going to be in the same exact boat as you, too. Studying at university for the first time, maybe in a new city, as you'll be. And lots of them will be in a new country too, just like you. You'll have so much fun and you'll forget all about your little flat in London and that annoying neighbour you only just met for the first time after a year of living on the same bloody floor." He tries to sound light-hearted and unaffected about that last part, but he's probably come across as sad and bitter about that fact. “You won’t even remember why you were scared after a while.”

Harry's quiet for a few agonizing moments, exhaling quietly.

"Your eyes are really blue," he then murmurs lowly, "like forget-me-nots," he whispers after a beat, hot puffs of air hitting Louis' face unevenly. 

Louis' breathing is suddenly ragged like he's been running for miles. "Harry," he whispers. Then abruptly, he laughs, verging on hysterical and Harry is looking at him with a pouty frown. "Am I Peter Pan?"

"Yeah, you are," Harry says with a dimpled smile, finally, squeezing Louis' hand gently. 

"Does that make you Wendy, then?"

Harry nods, smiling sleepily. But then he suddenly exclaims, "No! Peter left Wendy. They never ended up together," he tells him, sounding so put out and adorable, it causes a laugh to stutter out of him. Harry frowns at him, deep and offended. “He forgot her.”

"I think you'll find Wendy was the one that left Peter, though," he teases.

Harry doesn't laugh, his frown only deepens. Louis finds himself mirroring Harry's expression. 

“What time is your flight again?” Louis asks after a long silence of both of them staring at anything but each other.

Jesus. Innocently comparing them to Peter and Wendy took a fucking turn. 

“Four in the morning," Harry answers slowly, brows pinched, still not looking at him, silently fiddling with the multiple rings on his fingers.

“Oh," he breathes. "We’ve not got as long left as I thought.” 

And then Harry’s suddenly shuffling further into Louis’ space, tangling their jeaned legs together.

Harry connects their chests, encompassing Louis in his arms, resting his hands at Louis’ waist, fingertips gently seeking skin underneath his t-shirt, stroking his lower back with tentative, barely-there grazes, but the contact still makes Louis shiver. Harry’s eyes widen minutely, some sort of realisation washing over his soft features. 

“Can I kiss you again?" Harry asks, earnest, his hand halfway up his back now, fingers splayed across Louis' skin.

Louis’ breathless when he tells him, “You better." 

**

They went back to Harry's empty flat, and now they're sitting face to face, cross-legged on Harry’s bare floor, giggling softly about nothing and wearing matching crinkly-eyed smiles.

Louis’ record player sits between them and Harry’s box of packed vinyls is open and splayed across the floor bordering their bodies like a halo, who’s who of music. Harry’s got a collection of mis-matched stuff, some obscure indie bands Louis’ never heard of, some well-known, mainstream pop albums, a few from the New Romantic scene and a whole array of seventies Classic Rock.

Louis pokes at his dimple, trying to distract him as Harry sifts through his records, practically about to sit in the other boy’s lap, and Harry grins wider at him as he turns, dimples so big now that Louis’ knees feel weak, like they’re going to collapse beneath him.

Thankfully, he’s already sitting down.

“Don’t look,” Harry scolds as Louis makes grabby hands for what he’s picked out. “Close your eyes.” 

“What?” he laughs.

“Close them,” Harry whines louder, and his frown only makes Louis laugh harder, trying to shush him by covering his mouth with his palm. Harry swats it away and full on pouts.

What a little shit. Louis’ done for.

“Alright, go on, then, you brat.” Louis covers his eyes and listens out for the track Harry’s chosen to play.

There’s a quick, clapping beat, piano keys.

“Close to Me by The Cure?” Louis says dubiously, opening his eyes.

“Mm-hmm,” Harry hums, green eyes intently locked on Louis. He bites his bottom lip and starts to scoot closer to him, seemingly determined about something.

Louis watches Harry's lips almost obsessively. He wants to kiss him so badly but doing that again wouldn't help either of them, would it? He shouldn't have let Harry kiss him in the first place. Instead, Louis distracts him with more silly stories about his own time at uni, and jokingly mocks Americans for Harry's benefit who seems to treat him like a stand-up comedian or something, though it’s clear Harry thinks he could be one himself, cackling delightedly as Louis attempts his best impression of a New York accent.

And Harry laughs and laughs, and Louis is encouraged more and more, silently brooding over how unfair this is when he glances at Harry's hand luggage on the small kitchen worktop, passport and boarding pass ready to go.

**

The night slowly dwindles down and Louis watches Harry and Harry watches Louis, exchanging joyful wordless stares, purposeful touches and brushes of smooth, warm skin, Louis falling deeper and deeper into a place where’s no returning from.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Still, he forces down the ever approaching end of the night, in which he’ll at some point have to let go of Harry’s hand, and make Harry release his grip on the erratic pulsing of Louis' wrist, and blindly grabs onto the unwavering bundle of butterflies in his stomach, and the soft, rumbling sound of Harry’s infectious laugh, and that huge indent of a dimple in his ruddy left cheek.

“Let’s put this one on,” Louis suggests, lifting the needle of the record player and places the new choice of vinyl down carefully to play.

Harry’s currently lying on his back, faint shadows of the candles lit around Harry’s now empty flat visible in the newly washed floor. Because yes, Louis actually helped Harry clean the place up. Which he doesn’t do. Ever. But somehow doing the most mundane, usually boring, domestic shit with Harry ends up being some of the most fun he’s ever had.

Which. God. What even is that? This does not bode well seeing as he’s got to erase any blossoming feelings for Harry in about four hours.

Because Harry isn’t even going to be on this side of the Atlantic. 

He’ll be somewhere in the Big Apple. Making a new life for himself, meeting new friends, meeting new guys...

Louis shudders out a fragile breath, several conflicting emotions fighting its way up his throat and traitorously being lousily subtle about it too. He's no right to feel this territorial over a person he doesn't even really know. Does he?

This is all ludicrous. A whirlwind of a day with a fit boy who makes Louis feel things he's never felt in his life, let alone in his bloody toes.

He glances at Harry. Those wide, expressive eyes of his really are like a fucking lighthouse calling to him to shore. They never leave him. Have never left him this entire evening. Almost as if he’s trying to commit every line and contour and expression on Louis’ face to memory.

Fuck.

He hopes that’s not the case.

And, like.

This would never work long-distance. It wouldn’t. Right? Louis thinks it wouldn’t. He’s sure. He’s not sure. He’s... All he knows is he’s going to really miss Harry, and so wants to get to know him more, wants to spend more time with him, and that tightening of his throat is digging into his flesh again and prodding and poking at his innards the longer he stares back at Harry’s unabashed, unwavering gaze.

Louis also can't decide whether or not having met him a year ago would have been any better if it was going to lead to this place, anyway. Maybe it would have made things worse if they actually had met then and progressed into a relationship. But then, they would have been a couple. So. They would have found a way to make it work. Probably. Maybe. But this is all pointless wondering. He should probably go now. Before Louis makes things worse.

Anyway. The record he picked starts to play—‘Don’t Worry Baby’ by The Beach Boys. It’s his favourite. It makes him feel content, a comfortable kind of longing and a nostalgia he’s never felt about anything in his actual life before.

Maybe besides now.

_Well, it’s been building up inside of me_

_For oh, I don’t know how long_

Harry’s eyes flit between the record spinning, and Louis, and the floor and back to Louis again.

“I love this one,” Harry says quietly, face falling into an almost blank expression, but then it’s quickly replaced with a warm, idly pressed-lip smile that spreads smoothly over his young features. Because he is. Harry looks so young like this. And he is. He's only twenty. So bright-eyed and youthful, an air of unblemished innocence about him, and yet it’s paired with a wise, witty brain and creative intelligence. He’s so utterly lovely sprawled out like this, his teeth bitten into his crimson, slightly puffy bottom lip as his eyes search Louis’ probably fucking awed face.

Harry is champagne fizz in sparkling glasses, warm bubble baths and vanilla scented candles. He’s the reddest roses in a garden full of thorns, caught in the middle, unreachable and yet so frighteningly close to ensnaring Louis’ withering, bloody beating heart.

And Jesus. He really is waxing poetic on this boy so badly it’s embarrassing. Just how drunk is he?

Thank God he’s not speaking these mortifying things out loud.

_Don’t worry baby_

_Everything will turn out alright_

His hair is down and mussed now, framing his face like a chocolate-infused halo and it’s so glossy and wonderfully long like a Disney princess and Louis’s fingers itch to run through it. So he crawls back over to Harry and does just that. Slow hands carding through Harry’s long curly waves. Harry’s eyelids are soft and lazy, fluttering closed and open again as he watches Louis with bright, hooded eyes, the gentle rhythm of his breathing working in time with the soft rise and fall of his chest, cosily wrapped up in a loose grey hoodie, draped over his sheer shirt.

Louis stupidly starts thinking about the two of them doing this in bed on Sunday mornings, listening to Harry’s soft breathing or maybe he snores, or in the evening, and they're curled up on the sofa while the football is on or some crappy reality TV. Harry’s head using Louis’ thighs as a pillow, Louis playing with Harry’s hair, relaxed and happy and...

Suddenly his throat feels tight and everything is just a bit too... real. He panics, abruptly removing his hand from Harry's tresses and lets it fall limply into his lap.

Harry looks up, brows pinched. “Why’d you stop?” he asks, voice quiet and rumbling, mouth etched in a pout. “I like it when you play with my hair,” he flushes, a warm rosy glow washing his creamy face. "I like it. I like you."

And, god.

He can’t do this. He’s attached. He’s getting dangerously attached far too quickly. He shouldn’t be thinking about any of this. He shouldn’t be getting close to Harry at all. Louis thought they’d spend this one day together, make memories and leave it as that.

One perfect day. One brilliant, almost dreamlike day of memories he can take with him.

But Louis doesn’t want just _one_ of those.

He wants _all_ the days. Every day. As many as humanly possible.

“Sorry—um.“ Louis sits up properly. He takes a heavy breath and exhales, rubbing his hands over his face. “What time is it?” All while he can see Harry’s frown in his peripherals.

Harry’s face has fallen completely, and he looks away from Louis before reluctantly checking his watch.

“Just past midnight.”

Louis hums, faking nonchalance as he nods, presses his lips together as he fiddles with the hem of his short sleeved button up.

Harry’s flight takes off at four in the morning. They’ve barely got a couple more hours together if Harry wants to leave with enough time to get to the airport and check his bags in.

“Right well. Looks like Cinderella’s time at the ball is almost over.” It’s meant to be a joke, words to lighten the mood that’s quickly dissipated from a happy, tipsy bubble into an uncomfortable silence brimming with unsaid things and burning questions. 

But it's been a _day. A fucking day._

Harry gives him a blank look which makes Louis suddenly feel on edge, panicked that this amazing day is about to end and he’s not nearly ready for it to be over. He watches with miserable eyes as Harry gets up, wordlessly, mechanically starts to put away the vinyls back in their boxes and packs up Louis’ record player.

Standing up, and unsure what to say next, Louis starts to move toward the door when Harry’s hand suddenly encircles his wrist in a firm grip. There’s nothing tentative about the touch this time.

“Wait,” Harry says, green eyes imploring. “Where’re you going? You're going _now_?”

“It’s late, Harry. I should... Well, I should probably go. Should have left ages ago, actually.”

Harry lets go of his wrist and stares down at the floor, frowning.

“You’ll need to get going soon anyway, right? You’ve got a plane to catch remember?” he says lightly, tapping his elbow.

Harry’s still staring at the floor like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever seen, features morphing into a glare. Normally he’d laugh but a flare of annoyance ripples through Louis. This isn't his fault. It's just... unfortunate timing.

Really bad timing.

“Harry.”

Harry glances up but his face is distressed. Louis immediately softens. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

Harry sighs. “I just...” he trails off, obviously struggling with what he wants to say, trying to choose the right words.

Instead, Harry surges forward in one quick swoop and kisses Louis.

Harry latches onto his mouth and pushes him back against the door, kissing him with urgent presses of his plush lips.

He still tastes of red wine and nicotine and the nachos they had earlier.

Harry tastes like the best thing in the world.

Frantic hands grab and pull at Louis’ waist, crowding him against the door as his hands lift under Louis' thighs. Their lips suck and steal the breath out of each other’s lungs. Louis’ hands immediately burying in Harry’s loose curls, gripping them tight as he tilts his head, kissing Harry back with everything he has, throwing his body roughly into the kiss and pouring out everything he wants to say, everything he wishes he could say into this kiss, their mouths moving together like they’ve always moved together.

Harry pulls off, presumably for air, gasping with his eyes still closed. “Don’t go,” Harry whispers into his mouth. "I... I don’t want this to be over just yet.” And he sounds so sad and Louis leans back, letting the back of his head tap the door. He stares at him, watching Harry’s confused, worried brows furrow. He lets out a soft exhale, eyes fluttering closed and puffy lips hovering just in front of Louis’ parted mouth. “Stay for a bit longer, yeah? Just a bit.”

 _Can_ you _stay for a bit longer?_ is what Louis doesn't say. 

Bringing a hand up to touch Harry’s flushed right cheek, he whispers his own stupid request. “Come back to mine?”

Harry lets his hands loose under Louis’ thighs, and he slips Louis down smoothly against the door so that he’s standing again. Louis takes his hand without another word and leads him to his flat, the air between them is thick and heavy and so palpable it’s making Louis’ mouth go dry.

And then Louis remembers the tip that is his flat.

“Shit,” Louis turns to Harry. “Wait here. I’ll be right back out, I just need to. Uh. Clean up in there.” He smiles sheepishly and dashes inside, leaving Harry waiting outside before he starts to protest.

He whips up as many empty dishes as he can and shoves them into the already overflowing sink, picks up the disregarded crisp packets and darts towards his room to hurl his floor of clothes into a pile in the corner, trying to make everything look semi-decent and somewhat clean-ish.

Louis returns to the door where Harry is patiently waiting, smiling when he sees Louis. 

“I just wanna say I had a really amazing time today,” Harry murmurs lowly, eyes glossy and lips an unbelievable shade of red. Louis’ eyes flick to them, unable to look away even if someone were pulling him back. 

"The day's not over yet."

Harry's eyes glance down to Louis lips and back up again.

**

They awkwardly stumble into Louis’ bedroom in a frenzied tangle of limbs. Louis kicks the door open, probably harder than is strictly necessary, but they’ve got a lot less than four hours until Harry’s flight takes off now, so excuse him if he’s in a bit of a hurry to make this happen.

They kiss firm and frantic, tongues licking into each other’s mouths greedily, separating only to come up for air. Harry releases a shrill whine of pleasure as Louis sucks his bottom lip and nips it. The breathless sounds Harry's making are travelling straight to Louis’ dick.

“Can’t stop kissing you,” Harry mumbles into a shorter kiss, peppering little ones against his jaw. “Love kissing you,” he pants. “You’re so kissable. Did you know that?”

“Why yes,” Louis retorts teasingly. “I do. I’ve had the face snogged off me by many handsome boys in my time.” Harry makes a disgruntled noise, jumping up to clamp his legs around Louis’ waist (Louis’ honestly shocked he can hold Harry up longer than three seconds) and retaliates by latching onto Louis’ neck, those plush lips of his sucking under his jaw as he threads his hands through Louis’ slightly sweaty hair, gripping it tightly.

Okay, so he may be exaggerating slightly about the many boys. A lot. But Harry doesn’t need to know that. Especially if this is the reaction he gets. He’s awfully possessive considering they only really met today. Not that Louis really has any qualms about that. He’s enjoying it a bit too much, if he’s honest. But enough about that now.

Harry tightens his arms around Louis’ shoulders then bites his earlobe once. “Mine now,” he breathes hotly against his ear. 

_Mine now._

_Fuck, if only_ , Louis thinks. “Yeah. M’all yours,” is what Louis says aloud and Harry groans against his neck, burying his face there, even if it's just for tonight.

Louis shivers as Harry crashes his mouth back against his, giving him the most  _filthy_  kiss that has Louis’ dick twitching, bulging uncomfortably against the seam of his tight skinny jeans as he struggles to keep Harry upright in his hands, arms growing tired and about to lose them to pins and needles. Harry’s surprisingly not that much of a problem to hold up, but his long limbs are a bit of a dilemma as gorgeous as they are. Yeah, he might drop him any second now.

So Louis starts walking.

Harry’s hands move to slide all over Louis with desperate touches, roaming underneath his shirt, catching on the hem, exploring every inch of Louis’ upper body and still mouthing at his neck in a way that has Louis shivering out breathy moans. Louis reflexively tilts his head to the side to give Harry better access to suck a sensitive spot just under his jawline, nipping at the skin and then soothing it with his warm tongue.

Harry’s legs still refuse to let go of Louis, his wonderful thighs squeezing his waist like a vice, even as they fall onto the bed, which is a swarm of crumpled sheets and a puffy white duvet hanging off the end. (Thankfully he remembered to change the sheets yesterday). Harry rolls them over so that his thighs are bracketing Louis on the mattress, taking both Louis' hands and pinning them above his head, shoves one his thighs between Louis' legs and lowers his weight as he starts to tentatively grind down into Louis’ groin, hips moving in slow, deliberate circular movements.

"Oh... my god," Louis moans, tipping his head back on the pillow.

“Is this okay?” Harry asks croakily, breathing heavily, bending down to nudge Louis’ chin with his nose. “D’ya want this? I can— Want to make you feel good, Louis. I can make you feel so good,” he says more lowly, sounding wrecked already and Louis groans as he stares into green eyes that are glossy and dark, lips a smudged mess of crimson as they move to drag along Louis’ neck, so softly and sensually that it has Louis squirming against the sheets, shifting out of Harry's grip so that his arms come down to squeeze at Harry’s sides, hips involuntarily bucking up to meet Harry’s firm grinds.

Louis' hands hold onto the back of Harry’s neck for leverage, pulling him down closer so there’s not an inch between their bodies. “Yes," Louis insists, impatient. "Yes, Harry. I want this. Want you so much. Fuck."

"Thank god. I've wanted this to happen for so long," Harry practically whimpers.

"Huh?" Louis blinks dazedly.

But Harry pulls back and grins down at him, eyes practically sparkling in the sliver of moonlight that’s poking through the window’s blinds.

“Wait, hang on,” Louis says, reaching over to turn on the bedside lamp, the bedroom lighting up in a warm, amber hue.

After a few more minutes of thorough kissing and slow grinding, their movements start to deliberately speed up, becoming more frantic as they chase each other’s rhythms. Louis thrusts upwards desperately to meet Harry, the friction and heat building fast as they shift their hips together, mouths reconnecting wetly, messily again and again. It’s then that Louis realises they’re both still fully clothed. And that just won’t do. Time is ticking.

“Off.”

"What?” Harry freezes, faltering.

"Get these off,” Louis demands, grabbing at Harry’s jeaned arse. “Off. Get your clothes off. Now.”

“Bossy,” Harry beams down at him, obeying hastily. His breathing is laboured and laced with soft giggles as he struggles to wriggle out of his jeans that may as well have been painted onto his skin. “I like it,” he smirks.

“Come on! What are you playing at?” Louis laughs, throwing his head back as Harry scrambles to pull them down, dramatically shouting nonsense and laughing manically along with him, eyes full of awed adoration as he looks down at Louis on the bed. “I’ll have lost me hard-on by the time you’ve finished.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Harry purrs, and he practically kicks them off when they fall down to his ankles, quickly following suit with unbuttoning his shirt, disposing of it across the floor along with his socks and boots which both land with a thud. He smiles as he leans back on his haunches in only his boxers.

“Harry,” Louis prompts, a bit lost for words as his gaze flickers over Harry’s long, lean chest, gorgeous, nipples large and puffy and erect. He reaches out his fingertips to brush Harry’s soft, milky skin, and then he's sitting up and planting his wet mouth on one.

"Oh, fuck," Harry moans, cradling Louis' head, holding it in place against his chest.

Louis noses down and then he sees them—another two spots just beneath his pecs. “Are those—”

“Two extra nipples, yes,” Harry nods seriously, voice hoarse. “Can’t milk me though. They don't work.”

Louis beams at his silliness. Harry beams back, and the other boy immediately makes quick work of unbuttoning Louis’ own jeans, pulling them off more easily than Harry did his. Louis lays there, still, lifting his arms with a mischievous smirk on his face as Harry eagerly helps him take off his shirt, slowing down when he’s met with Louis’ bare chest.

Harry drinks him in, eyes hooded and mouth parted. Then he's crawling on top of him, hungrily mouthing at Louis’ overly warm skin, which is burning with every determined press of Harry’s plush, wet lips, breath hitching when Harry teasingly licks over one of his nipples, rubbing it gently with his thumb until it hardens, as he peppers his chest with more deep, open-mouthed kisses, hands roaming, roaming, roaming.

They continue to rut against each other, lined up in their boxers, clinging desperately to each other’s increasingly sweaty bodies. Then Harry abruptly halts them. Louis looks up to see his pupils are blown wide, a bright pink flush high on both of his cheekbones. “L-Lou,” he chokes out. “Do you want to—” he pauses, a shrill whine escaping his red bitten lips as Louis rubs and thrusts up harder against him relentlessly. “I mean... can _you_ fuck _me_?” Louis slows down until he stops too. “You know, if you want to?” he sheepishly adds, like he’s somehow afraid Louis will turn him down. As if Louis’ going to tell him no. 

Louis’ response is to swiftly flip Harry over so that Harry is lying pliant underneath him, mouth agape and breathless, wide green eyes gazing up at him so trustingly, chest heaving and glistening with a thin layer of boyish sweat, loose wild curls spread out on the pillow. Harry’s fingertips reach out and tentatively graze across his collarbones and where there’s a faint trail of hair over his chest, travelling further down to his stomach, stroking and exploring Louis’ body, like he’s fascinated with every contour and crease and bump. “If I _want_ to,” Louis repeats, rolling his eyes with a crooked smile, amusement glittering his voice—he knows it’s gone all soft and husky.

Harry’s answering smile is blinding. Fuck. There’s no way he’s going to last long at all.

But this is probably a bad idea.

If this was any other guy, in any other situation, Louis would have no problem with no-strings-attached, one night only sex. Except. Harry isn’t just any guy. He’s... well, he’s _Harry._ And Louis knows, that for him at least, this probably isn’t just about sex. He _likes_ Harry. And if Harry’s behaviour this whole day is anything to go by, he surely must like Louis too? Yet, there’s an annoying voice niggling in the back of Louis’ mind. _Don’t do this. You won’t be able to let him go if you do this. Bad. Bad idea._

But god, he wants to do this.

He wants Harry. So much. Wants Harry to scream his name over and over until he makes him come.

Shit. Okay.

Louis leans down and connects his mouth with Harry’s, a hot, lingering press of his lips to his as he steals the breath out of the boy lying pliant and so soft beneath him, shivering as Harry’s arms come up around his shoulders. He paws at the clammy skin of his back persistently, fingers pressing into Louis’ flesh in a silent request for _more_.

Louis can give him more.

“How do you want it? Tell me what you want,” he asks breathily, sliding hands down the plane of Harry's chest to his sides, stopping short of his groin. He’s almost dizzy with it. With _want._ He just can’t get enough of him. He wants all of him, everything, all at once. And Harry is so responsive, so pliant under his hands. 

Harry’s hands roam through Louis’ hair, caressing his scalp and Louis’ eyes practically roll into the back of his head, every touch of Harry sending tiny electric shocks shooting through his veins. Louis’ own hands are gently running back down Harry’s hips as he pulls off Harry’s mouth and immediately buries his face in the crook of Harry’s neck, nuzzling at the supple, smooth skin that smells distinctly like _him_.

“Just you,” Harry slurs as he tilts his head back further into the pillow. “Want you inside me. Please.  _Now_ ,” he groans, breathes ragged. When Louis doesn't immediately answer he blindly grabs for Louis' arm. “ _Louis_.” Harry’s legs bend and squeeze at Louis’ sides. "Please. Come on." It seems to be a thing. Gripping Louis with his legs like a vice. Like he’s _his_.

And okay, Louis doesn’t need to be told twice.

“Fuck, okay, um. Hang on, let me just, uh—” he pants, leaning over the bed and over Harry to get to the top drawer of his bedside table, clumsily pulling it open, and retrieving a bottle of lube and a condom. He chucks the items down on the bed, the sounds of their deep puffs of breath filling the thick, stuffy air of his bedroom.

Louis smooths his hands over Harry’s chest, placing quick chaste kisses over his pecs and his lean stomach, and one on the base of his throat, pressing a longer one underneath his cute belly button, sucking and nipping at the flesh there. Harry’s breath hitches as he tries to swallow a moan, angling his chin down to look at him, stroking his hair with his hand absently. “Lou,” he says, sounding as desperate as Louis feels. "Come on, please."

“Okay, babe,” Louis says, smiles when Harry makes a pleased noise in his throat, leaning back up to clumsily kiss him once in the corner of his mouth, missing his lips completely.

He leans back on his haunches, pushing Harry’s long, gorgeous legs apart so he can settle between them, and pulls down his boxers, Harry’s hard dick springing free to rest atop his stomach, leaking pre-come at the head.

“God, you’re perfect,” Louis breathes, unable to stop himself from grabbing hold of it and immediately licking over the tip, flicking his tongue over rapidly and down the shaft heartily. Harry gasps, throwing his head back as Louis takes him down deeper, groans around his dick.

“Louis, fuck,” he chokes out, panting and squirming on the sheets, thighs squeezing Louis' head for a second before Louis' holding his hips down hard enough that he'll probably leave bruises. He kind of hopes he does, so that Harry has a litter of them to remember Louis by.

After.

“So beautiful, babe,” Louis says in awe, as he pops back off, leaving Harry a shaking mess and finishes removing Harry’s boxers completely, chucking them on the floor with the rest of their clothes. Louis rids himself of his own boxers, and Harry gazes at him, leaning up with his elbows on the bed.

“Fuck, you’re so gorgeous. So fucking gorgeous," he babbles. "How am I supposed to cope?” He looks genuinely distressed about it. God, he's too much. 

Louis barks out a short laugh. “You’re too adorable,” he tells him as Harry tries to pout, instead only succeeding in looking completely fucked out and he's not even inside him yet. “Alright, love, gonna open you up now, okay?”

Harry nods frantically and lies back down, hands gripping the sheets beside him and bends his slim long legs upwards at the knees. “Mm-hmm,” he hums, practically gnawing on his bottom lip. Louis wonders if he’s going to make it bleed at this rate.

Louis slicks up his fingers with a generous amount of lube and strokes one finger slowly over Harry’s puckered hole. Harry flinches, then starts to giggle.

“What’s funny?” Louis says, a bit affronted.

“It’s cold,” he informs him, a smile in his voice, lifting his head up to see him, eyes crinkling. God. Louis is so gone. Bad fucking sign.

“Just lay back down, Mister,” he says, his own eyes crinkling in the corners as he smiles at this beautiful boy laid out for him. Harry does as he says, blinking owlishly at Louis before he his hips jerk upwards as Louis’s finger circles his entrance and slips the tip inside him.

“Ah!"

“Okay?”

Harry hums low in his throat and lifts his legs up, holding them under the knees, his breathing even more ragged and erratic as Louis pulses his finger in and out at a steady pace. After a while of needy whimpers, he adds another digit, pushing past Harry’s tight, slick rim.

“Fuck.” Harry turns his head to the side, the sounds muffled in his pillow. "Fuck, fuck.” He’s shifting on the bed restlessly, squirming as he grips his legs, folding himself in half as he pushes back on Louis’ fingers, thighs trembling with the effort to hold them upright.

“You’re so good for me, Harry. God, you look stunning like this,” he whispers, spending another few minutes scissoring his fingers inside him, crooking them at a different angle to search for his spot, pushing as deep as he can go.

“Ah, Louis!” His chest is squirming, the muscles contracting beautifully as Louis gauges Harry’s reaction when he finds his spot, pressing on it relentlessly. Harry's eyes are squeezed shut, gasping as his neck is exposed and on display. Louis leans up and kisses Harry as he crooks his fingers again, swallowing another of Harry’s moans as he slips his tongue inside his mouth, wanting to taste him at the same time. “Please, come on. Need you in me,” Harry begs, continuing to impatiently push back on his fingers, pulsing them inside just right as Harry keens, arching his back, hands pressing into the back of Louis’ neck.

Harry is a panting, beautiful mess by the time Louis thinks he’s ready enough, staring at Louis with such a fucked out expression, Louis might come on the spot. He's so close already, dizzy with the urge to just come.

Harry's legs drop down onto the mattress and his hands find their way into his long curls, trying to catch his breath. His eyes are closed as he slowly exhales, and opens them again, staring up at Louis so intensely, dazed, Louis almost chokes on his own breath at the sight.

“Fuck me, _please."_  

Louis pecks a chaste kiss to his lips in answer, Harry’s eyes never leaving him. He watches Louis fumble with the condom and sits up briefly to rip it open rather robustly and thrusts it into Louis’ palm which makes Louis laugh. Harry frowns but it quickly turns into the loveliest smile as he settles back down and Louis slides the condom onto his aching length, slicking it up with lube.

“Right, do you want to turn over or—”

“No, can we do it like this?” Harry says, voice small and breathless, finding himself lost in the glossy sheen of Harry’s bright green eyes. “Want to stay on my back. Want to see you.”

And, okay. Louis wants that too, wants to absorb every reaction in Harry’s face, every pretty noise he makes. “Or course we can, love,” Louis says, a surge of butterflies swooping low in his tummy. He moves to place a pillow underneath Harry’s hips and lines himself up, dropping another dollop of lube over Harry’s pink hole.

When he finally, slowly pushes in, Harry's so hot and tight around him, he almost blacks out the feeling is so good, the heat of Harry pulsing around his dick almost painfully. 

"God, you're taking me so well," Louis slurs, dizzy.

“Get down here,” Harry demands, pulling him in by the neck, arms winding around his back, hot breath fanning Louis’ cheeks, chin resting over Louis' shoulder. 

“Needy, aren't you?” Louis chides, eyes crinkling as he grins down at this stunning boy beneath him.

Harry gives him an unimpressed tilt of his head and smacks an obnoxiously loud kiss to his mouth, smirking when he pulls off. "For you," he says, proud, making Louis roll his eyes with a groan, but it’s wiped off when Harry palms his arse, tugging him closer and rubbing back against him. Louis pushes in further, both of them releasing guttural moans as Louis bottoms out. He lays flat on top of Harry, whose legs immediately wrap around his lower back, the soles of his feet digging into the backs of Louis' thighs. “Okay. You can move now," Harry instructs.

Louis rests his arms beside Harry’s head and Harry grips onto his forearms as Louis starts to thrust into him, pulling almost all the way out, and then pushing right back in again. Harry lets out a soft breath, eyelids fluttering closed. Louis’ thrusts are slow at first, but then start to speed up once he’s found a good rhythm. Harry doesn’t hold back, moans in time with each thrust, and Louis thinks he might come just from hearing the obscene noises Harry is making alone, stark heat pooling low in his tummy, sweat droplets sliding down his temples. Then Harry’s hands find Louis’ bum, gripping it firmly and palming the flesh, kneading it heartily, encouraging Louis to go faster, deeper, chanting _more, more, more_ on a mantra as he pushes Louis’ bum down further, harder, making Louis' hips snap, jerking with erratic movements.

Harry gets louder, a continuous flow of swear words escaping his mouth with each squeak and creak of the bed, and Louis absently gives his neighbours a thought. God. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, shit, ah!” he groans. “Louis,” he drawls out, deep and guttural.

“You alright? Am I going too hard?” Louis falters, breathless, a sheen of sweat beginning to stick to his chest.

“No, don’t stop!” Harry all but growls. “God! Don’t stop, please, Louis, please," he says, practically begging, almost slurring the words deliriously, so Louis takes that as his cue to speed up, aiming for Harry’s spot every time and changing the angle as he lifts Harry’s hips and turns them slightly on their sides, thrusting and gripping his hips closer in time. And he's biting his bottom lip so hard it fears it might bleed. "You're perfect. Feel amazing."

He thrusts three, four more times and then Harry's body goes taut. He tips his neck back on a silent moan as he shudders and comes between their stomachs. He whines as Louis strokes him through it, thrusting a handful more times and then Louis is coming too, whimpering into Harry's neck as he spills inside him. When they finally come down, Louis pulls out and chucks the condom into his bin.

They collapse onto their backs, chests heaving side by side before falling into breathless giggles.

"That was," Harry pants, grinning as he turns to Louis, "fucking amazing."

"Yeah," Louis exhales. "Though, I think I'm going to be hated by the whole floor tomorrow morning," he laughs, trying to catch his breath, shuffling back to a lazily smiling Harry, whose eyes are lidded, mouth slack. He shifts on the bed after a moment, hugging Louis close, immediately working on giving him a litter of love bites around his neck, and Louis ignores the urge to check the time, to know how many more minutes he's got left with this wonderful boy gripping onto his shoulders, pressing the pads of his fingers into his flesh, and pretends they've got all night for a bit longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, that turned out to be longer than I thought! Next chapter will be shorter, though.
> 
> Thanks for reading, lovelies! xx


	3. The Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm updating! Shocker. I'm very sorry that I'm so incompetent with updating WIP's. But at last, here's another chapter :) Also I'm sorry it's not as long as last time. It's about 7k, though.

 

After Louis came back from the bathroom, armed with a wet flannel to wipe them both down with, and when Harry finished sucking a rather deep bruise into the junction where Louis’ neck and chin met, they lazily shared Louis' last cigarette between them. Which was a bad idea, pretending they had all the time in the world, when Harry really should have gone already, but Louis did it anyway. Too addicted to Harry's warm body heat, to the green of his eyes.

Harry eyed him curiously, a small smile tugging his lips. “Let me have it,” he said, holding out his hand expectantly.

Louis passed it to him, amused, his attention caught on the pretty bow of Harry’s plump mouth. “Do you even smoke?”

“Sometimes,” Harry rumbled. “Like, now.”

“So I’m not a bad influence on you, then?” Louis smirked.

Harry exhaled the smoke in the most sultry, obscene way Louis had ever witnessed, keeping his emerald gaze glued to his, a cloud of it making the air around them hazy, much like Louis’ brain.

Louis cursed the fact that his dick had started stirring yet again at the mesmerising sight, sure Harry could _definitely_ feel him getting hard again, since his thick thigh was inching closer, pressed firmly up against Louis’ groin, his left leg resting easily over Louis like it was normal. A domestic thing they just did. He had his elbow propped up on the pillow, and Louis hated the way it felt like this was the way it was supposed to be, his mouth struggling to stay upturned.

“Nah, I might be a bad influence on you, though,” Harry mumbled, smirking devilishly, eyes flitting downwards as he blindly passed the almost burnt out cigarette back to Louis, itching a spot on his sternum with his thumb.

"You haven't known me long enough to say if that's true," Louis scoffed, puffing out a laugh as he nestled the cigarette back between his lips.

Harry didn't say anything else but he shifted closer, continuing to watch in fascination as Louis finished it, and when he did, Harry unceremoniously tugged Louis to his chest, pressing his swollen, crimson lips to Louis’ the very moment Louis stubbed the stick out on a plastic coaster by the bed. Harry hummed into it and Louis’ dick stirred again in interest. “You taste so good,” he breathed into Louis’ mouth, teeth biting gently into Louis' bottom lip.

Louis tried to shake off how intense and familiar all these small exchanges felt, because no good could come of this. Every extra minute with Harry was messing with his head, but instead he just chuckled, delirious on Harry’s presence, eager to soak everything up and brand it to his memory. Oh, Jesus, it was bad. 

“Sure I don’t just taste like cigarettes?” Louis murmured, sliding his hand into Harry’s hair, his fingertips scratching lightly over his scalp, threading through the long, sleek tresses.

“No, you taste...” Harry sucked brazenly on Louis’ tongue, “...amazing,” he said earnestly, smudging his crimson lips over Louis’ jaw. He exhaled. “I think I better be careful,” he said, as he ran the pads of his clammy fingers across the sweaty sheen of Louis’ forehead, thumb brushing the papery skin underneath his eyes, “not to get addicted to it, ‘s too good. I might become obsessed.”

God, could Harry even register the things he was saying? And why was he saying these things, anyway? Had he forgotten he wouldn't be here long enough to become used to Louis? It was fucked up.

Yes. Louis was truly fucked, even as he tipped his head back on the pillow, allowing himself to get lost in everything unimaginably wonderful that Harry was transpiring within his innards.

They ended up swapping rushed and frantic mutual hand jobs, as they kissed breathlessly, Louis stark aware of every minute, every second that was ticking by, one more less than he had before. And so he fervently swallowed the sounds of Harry’s needy moans, and savoured every one of Harry's possessive squeezes of Louis’ hips, and tried to stamp the heady, frenzied ambiance permanently to his memory.

Because Louis is a masochist and wants to suffer. Lest he forget how he feels in this moment, because apparently he’s sick like that and would rather wallow over what’s lost than cling to the good things. (Or maybe that’s just when it comes to Harry.)

It was like they were desperately trying to take as much from each other as they could before the inevitable, looming moment that Harry had to leave.

Afterwards, they quietly lay side by side in comfortable silence, just staring at each other with hooded eyes, hazy minds, their fingers roaming across each other’s skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake, cold feet entangled and limbs twisted up in Louis’ messy sheets.

But barely ten minutes passed before Harry started to shift again in Louis’ hold, and something cold poked at his insides.

Dread.

Where Harry’s warm chin was hooked over Louis’ shoulder, he felt the other boy carefully extract himself from being cushioned around his chest, and watched Harry gingerly set his bare feet on the floor, sitting upright on the bed, facing away from Louis.

Oh, god.

Was this the third and final act, then? Was this the part where the person you’ve had a one night stand with tries to subtly leave when they think you’re asleep? 

Louis’ never actually been the one to stay in bed while that happened before. He was the one doing to the scarpering during the early hours, hurriedly collecting his clothes in the dark, and trying to wipe the clumsy, mediocre memory from his brain.

This, though?

This was different.

Louis has no intention of this being a one-off, for all what little good it is to even be thinking that, anyway.

Apparently Harry might think so. And of course, Harry does. Obviously. What other option is there, really? Harry has a plane to catch. Louis knew this from the off. He has a new life overseas to be getting on with. Louis isn’t a part of that, nor does he have any right to be, does he?

Still, though. Doesn't make it hurt less.

Louis stayed incredibly still, trying to shove away the flashing displeasure, eyes locked on the strong planes of Harry’s smooth back, lit up by his poxy yellow lamp, the dips and creases of his creamy, pale skin highlighted by the artificial light, his chocolate brown waves and curls falling effortlessly over the top of his glorious back muscles.

Louis fisted a hand in the pillow Harry had been resting on, had to restrain himself from tugging Harry in by his lovely, soft hips and pulling him down into his bed again, smother his body with kisses and very pathetically beg him to stay.

But he can’t very well ask a practical stranger to change his plans for him, and he’d never ask him to. He’d dream it, though.

Only, now a whole minute’s gone by and Harry is still sat motionless, hasn’t moved an inch. You’d think he was a mannequin going by how unbelievably still he is, still with his back to Louis and his soft, quiet breaths the only sounds Louis can hear.

They remind him of the sounds he made not even an hour ago while he was underneath Louis.

Louis swallows, waiting for Harry to glance back around but he doesn’t, just continues to sit, unmoving, apparently staring at Louis’ pale blue walls. Jesus, he knows what regret feels like after you’ve fumbled around with someone you wish you hadn’t, but from the way Harry’s taking it, it’s a bit bloody offensive, to be honest.

Then Harry draws his knees up, and he looks so young from this angle that Louis’ burst of indignant bruised ego is immediately washed away.

This is getting beyond awkward now, though, so Louis dares to move, the sheets rustling with him. Harry’s shoulders hunch at the sound.

“Hey,” Louis whispers, rubbing soothing—if a little hesitant—circles into Harry’s back. He feels Harry relax under his touch and leans back into him, sighing softly.

Harry turns around to face him. “Hey,” he says, a phantom smile on his lips.

“You okay?” Louis asks tentatively, heart pounding, brows pinching slightly _. Do you regret it?_ is what he doesn’t say.

“Yeah, m’fine,” Harry nods earnestly and twists himself to embrace Louis in a brief but warm hug, his arms engulfing Louis’ neck.

Louis stiffens, unsure of what to do with this gesture, only lets himself be hugged by Harry, somewhat bemused. 

This is all too familiar. Too affectionate. Too comfortable for something that is essentially supposed to be a one night stand, right?

Unless Harry doesn’t want it to be? Or is this simply Harry’s sweet way of saying goodbye, and thanks for all the sex?

It’s definitely too much of all of the above for someone who plans to walk out of his life as quickly as he stumbled into it in a couple of hours, less than that even.

Louis settles on chuckling nervously and awkwardly releases himself from Harry’s arms.

This is... new.

Louis doesn’t think anyone’s ever hugged him after having sex. Not even wanted to cuddle at all, really. Louis’ encounters have basically consisted of get in and get out, and cheers for the high, but I’ll never be seeing you again.

Dear god. Is that sad? That’s kind of sad. And detached. And emotionless.

But with Harry, it’s felt anything but.

God, it felt like nothing else he’s ever experienced before.

Which makes this quite a bloody predicament he’s in.

Louis feels weird. And sort of like he wants to hug Harry again, and squeeze him close until his poor, miserable heart is satisfied and forgets he’s about to leave Louis soon. Probably forever.

Oh, Christ, he’s this close to penning some forlorn poetry about unrequited love at this rate. The next superhero he designs is probably going to be named Jilted Lover, or Dead Romeo, and his powers will include summoning all the butterflies in the world, and be able to make summer permanent at the click of a finger, scorch someone to smithereens by the sheer heat of the sun.

And he'll wear a bright pink catsuit as his uniform. And maybe a choker.

Anyway.

Louis flusters with what to say as the quiet stretches on and Harry just continues to stare openly at him with wide, unabashed eyes. His big, round, green eyes in the soft, warm hue of Louis’ room that smells like sex and sweat and the remnants of cigarette smoke, and Harry is just sitting here on the edge of his bed, still naked as the day he was born, and still looking flushed, his hair is a tousled, exquisite mess. He just generally appears fucked out.

Fucking beautiful, is what he is.

The wonderful, poetic, piece of art bastard.

Louis' fingers itch to touch him again. He clears his throat. “Um. Do you want a drink? I can make you some tea? Coffee? Um, I might also have some orange juice left in the fridge. Might be a bit tangy, though. Not sure how long it's been open for," he rambles on. “Or just water? I’ve got an unopened bottle of Evian?”

Shut up, Louis.

“Uh, no, that’s okay. Thank you, though.” Harry pauses, tongue licking over his bottom lip and his teeth sink back into it, eyes elsewhere on Louis’ overturned lamp. He distractedly sets it upright again. “And I better not, anyway. I should really get going now,” Harry rumbles on a mild upturn of his puffy, Louis-kissed lips, although it does look like more of a grimace, a sad tilt to his mouth. Louis’ mind whirls with what that could mean. “Need to go and check the flat over one more time. Lock up, grab my stuff and that. Make sure everything’s ready to go.”

“Yeah, course,” Louis breathes, trying not to wince. “Time is getting on. Well, I’m just gonna—” He holds up his thumb over his shoulder. “Bathroom. I’ll be right back, yeah? If you need anything, just help yourself. I won't be long."

“Okay, thanks,” Harry says quietly with a closed-mouthed smile. Louis feels his eyes on him as he leaves his bedroom with his clothes, padding out quickly.

As soon as Louis gets inside the bathroom, he turns the lock, letting his head fall back against the door, hopeless.

He weakly whinges and whimpers for a good thirty seconds, muttering obscenities and general sounds of despair, massaging his temples before he gets to cleaning himself up, gets dressed and then sits on the toilet seat cursing for about five minutes before he finally works up the nerve to leave the bathroom and wanders back into the bedroom.

Which is empty.

Fuck. Panic surges through his whole body. Has Harry left already? Jesus, that’s—

Rude. That’s fucking rude.

Alright, so technically this does count as a one night stand, but hasn’t that idea gone to shit considering they’ve spent the whole bloody day together? Going on their 'not date', catching funfair rides and eating fucking pink cotton wool, and kissing enthusiastically with beer in their bloodstreams on the dewy grass, hands touching anywhere they could reach as they giggled their arses off, as though they'd always done exactly that?

Right?

“Harry?” he says, voice wavering slightly.

He waits a few moments before he calls out again. He’s not about to sound completely desperate, thanks. "Harry, are you still here?"

There’s no answer.

Brutal disappointment crushes Louis’ chest as he collapses onto his bed, face down, sheets in a ruffled heap in the middle, the duvet lying on the floor, about to mope for the foreseeable future and seriously contemplating becoming a songwriter to record his soul-crushing heartbreak about the one-off that got away, when he hears a clanking sound from the hallway.

Louis pads out to find Harry now in the doorway, dressed in a white jumper and black leather jacket, his glasses perched atop his head, his keys dangling between his fingers, and his luggage by his suede boots. He puts a hand to the back of his neck, clearly attempting to feign an easy smile.

He fails miserably.

But thank fuck. Harry’s still here.

“I thought you’d already left,” Louis’ traitorous mouth admits.

“No,” Harry shakes his head, frowning. “I wouldn’t just leave without saying goodbye.” His tone is a bit taken aback, tinged with hurt. Harry’s silent for a few moments, before he smiles at him, albeit sadly. 

Ugh. Fuck, this is some heavy shit. Louis wonders if Harry would mind if he just held onto his ankles to stop him from leaving.

His throat is starting to close up, eyes stinging. Shit. Don’t do it, Louis. Don’t you dare, you embarrassing, pathetic fool.

“I do have to leave for the airport now, though. I’m cutting it pretty fine now,” he winces slightly.

Louis nods, and then a stupid thought comes over him. “I’ll take you.”

Harry’s eyebrows raise, surprised.

“I’ll drive you to the airport. Hang on, though, just need to grab my keys and find me shoes,” he says before his feet are moving and immediately slipping into his disregarded Vans in his bedroom. He almost trips on his face as he runs back out to a hesitant Harry, eyeing him dubiously.

“You don’t have to do that. I already called a cab. They’re quick, Louis, it’s fine, don’t be silly,” Harry says timidly, but sounding grateful, voice soft, placing an uncertain hand lightly on Louis’ shoulder to stop him from heading out the door.

The touches sure have tamed down from wanting to tear each other’s clothes off earlier. Louis’ not sure how things got so awkward and tentative when they were literally still fucking each other like their lives depended on it not half an hour ago, desperate, insistent hands pushing and tugging and pressing without any inhibitions.

Louis presses his lips together tightly and nods, another wave of disappointment washing over his battered cells. “If you’re sure? It’s really not a problem, Harry. I don’t mind. I’ll put me foot down and get you there in record time, you know?” he smiles, quirking a teasing eyebrow.

“Louis,” Harry murmurs, coy and gentle. “It’s fine. But thank you.” His voice is quiet, lazy. Louis wants to melt in it. Bottle it up, maybe. Keep it forever. Or something less creepy and embarrassingly clingy. “It’s really nice of you to offer.”

“Yeah,” Louis shrugs, staring at the floor, chuckling half-heartedly.

“Um. So... Louis. Tonight was—” Harry trails off, smiling into his shoulder, feet pigeon toed and adorably fidgety, even though he looks like a fucking rockstar who’s stumbled off stage, about to hop on his tour bus,“well, it was something,” he laughs softly. “If you were doing your best to make my last night before I go memorable for me, and well... amazing, then... yeah, you certainly did that.” A grin slowly forms on his glistening, flushed face. “Several times over, in fact.”

Louis laughs, genuine and startled. “Well, I’m glad I’m an unforgettable shag,” he pops his hip out, flicking his hair. “My young life’s dream.”

Harry barks out an brazen laugh, before his face softens and his cheeks redden further as he bites on his bottom lip.

They stand there, the air around them thick and heady, soundless.

“I should go and wait downstairs,” Harry tells him, picking up his bag and slinging it over his shoulder, albeit incredibly unhurried, eyes stuck to Louis.

Fuck, this is it.

Harry’s leaving to get on a plane.

Away from Louis.

That’s it.

Goodbye, London. Hello, New York City.

He wants to whine, make a fuss, stomp around a bit, plead and beg to get inside Harry’s suitcase.

Louis can’t disguise the hurt on his face and it’s clear Harry has noticed, because his calm expression has morphed into a sad twist of his lips. But Louis has no time to plaster on a cheery smile and a ‘safe journey, mate’ because Harry suddenly surges forward in one quick glide, taking Louis’ face in his hands and pushes him back against the wall—

And kisses him.

The kiss is soft at first, lingering before it hastily turns urgent, almost bruising as Harry’s lips move seamlessly over Louis’, his hold on Louis’ face growing desperate. Louis fawns at his warm, plush body, as Harry presses firmer against Louis’s chest, and then Harry is abruptly pulling away, staring at Louis with wide eyes, panting slightly.

“I _really_ better go,” Harry breathes, running a hand through the tresses of his messy, brown waves, clustered in disarray, but still makes no move to leave, frowning deeply now.

“Yeah, don’t want to miss your flight,” Louis says, voice hoarse from Harry’s unexpected kiss attack.

“Thank you, again,” Harry whispers, “you know, for the whole day. It was the best send off I could have asked for,” he smiles, eyes somewhat imploring, and then he’s shuffling out the door, green eyes finding Louis’ one more time before he shuts it with a gentle click.

“Bye,” Louis blinks when the door is closed, staring at it for a few moments, but then without thinking, Louis is throwing his body forwards, racing out the flat.

“Harry!” he calls.

Harry’s flat door opens and Harry pops his head out, round green eyes blinking at Louis owlishly.

“Erm, it’s really not—I mean, I’m sure I can get you to the airport quicker than a cab, right? Really, it’s no trouble,” Louis says as evenly as he can, aware he sounds overly desperate right now. God, how mortifying. He just wants to soak up every last second—as stupid as that would be. But Louis’ never claimed to not do stupid things. Repeatedly.

Harry’s face spreads into a warm smile. “Okay.”

“What?” Louis blinks. “Okay? Really? Do you have to cancel your cab?”

“Oh, um. I didn’t actually ring for one yet,” Harry says, smiling timidly.

“So what was that, then? A test to see if I’d really let you go without seeing you off?”

“But you don’t have to do that, though?” Harry insists, though a hint of a smile still dances across those bitten lips. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“I want to, though. Come on, you. Honestly.” Louis grabs his keys, smirking, and guides Harry with a hand on his side.

**

They chatted casually about stupid random shit on the way, the cool night air caressing their exposed skin from the windows being down half-way, and bright, wide-awake eyes sneaking sideways glances at the other, sharing quiet laughter with their faces glowing from the streetlights.

Then they arrived at the airport, and Louis begrudgingly trailed behind Harry to wave him out of his life. After essentially having a one night stand with him. So this is all very bizarre. Clearly. And now everything is back to being unfair.

And awkward. And generally just massively shit.

“Okay, so I better go through to check-in,” Harry reminds him quietly. "I have exactly one hour and thirty six minutes until my boarding time," he says, staring at his boarding pass in his hand.

They’re standing together at the start of the line, but there's not many people around, and practically in each other's laps by how close they’re standing. At some point walking through to get here, Harry briefly (and cruelly) took hold of Louis’ hand, just idly playing with Louis' fingers for a bit, and dear god, it’s fucking with his head. Because why is Harry holding his hand? Why is he doing these little things? This is unsettling and weird and far too intimate for what they are to each other.

It’s a dagger to Louis chest, is what it is. He thought Harry was the blooming rose, but no, Harry is the dagger through his heart. An arrow through it, rather.

Louis stares into his green eyes as glossy as they were a few hours ago, only now the glossiness represents an entirely different emotion. Louis thinks, anyway. He’s not sure if he wants that to be the case or not.

Maybe not. It’s only more complicated to think it’s anything more.

“l really need to join the line," Harry says, though Harry makes no move to leave, only continues to blink at Louis imploringly with something like that pesky feeling called hope in his gaze. Like he’s waiting for something.

Waiting for what, though?

For Louis to say goodbye first?

Louis doesn’t move either, sockless feet in his worn Vans firmly glued to the shiny floor of the airport, legs jittery and aching with nervous pent up energy. He's absently aware of the sharp scent of lemon air freshener and strong bleach as he watches people arrive to join the line and lug their luggage with them to check-in.

He feels sick and all he can think about is the fact he still hasn't asked Harry how he feels about keeping this thing going.

Because he decided in the car. He was going to casually mention giving him his number, his email, anything.

To give it a go, however unlikely and impractical the idea is. To give _them_  a chance.

Because if things were different, if Harry wasn’t going to New York, if they just met today and Harry was still living next door, one of them would be asking for a second date, wouldn’t they?

Louis would, anyway.

Their legs and thighs are pressed against the other as they stand and Louis leans into the contact further, as he tries to conjure up the courage to ask Harry if he wants to continue this. Mainly through the platform of Skype, late night phonecalls and voicemails, probably.

Ugh.

But at this point, Louis will gladly take a long-distance thing over not being in Harry’s life at all. He's that entangled up in this already. It should be terrifying and ridiculous, but to Louis, nothing has ever felt more real. But Harry hasn't said anything either. Harry’s made no move to ask for his number or anything. Maybe he's treating this for what it is.

A one-time thing. 

“Yeah,” Louis answers lamely, lowering his head, unable to meet Harry’s burning gaze. “Time to go, then.”

This wasn't the grand gesture, or happy ending of a romantic comedy he was hoping for.

Foolish.

Louis feels foolish.

Harry's eyes are practically sparkling as he looks down at him, but that sad tilt to his mouth is rearing its unfortunate head again, pulling the fraying strings of his heart enough to make Louis want to grab Harry's hand and never let it go.

But he can't do that.

Still, it doesn't stop him being a lovesick idiot, who can’t bear to let a boy travel over the Atlantic Ocean after not even spending twenty-four hours with him.

Harry’s moving to New York. He was before he met Louis and he's going without Louis, too. One night together isn't going to change his plans. What is he thinking? They spent a day and a night together. It’s not like they’re in relationship. Surely Harry doesn't want to do the long-distance thing, anyway? Fuck.

Except... Louis does.

He wants that. He wants to be in a relationship with Harry. He wants another date, he wants more memories. He wants to dive straight in and screw logic and being realistic because as Harry once told Sally: _"When you realise you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.”_

Fucking god, he’s lost it. Has Louis been at the tequila? Was his drink spiked? Embarrassing. This is absurd.

To sum up, Louis is a massive sap. He doesn't deny it. The biggest, sappiest sap to ever sap and to be perfectly honest, he's not even a little bit ashamed _,_ and as ridiculous and crazily fast as it is, Louis doesn’t want to let Harry go and never see him again.

He wants him to stay. It feels right. Nothing else has ever felt more right. Louis knows deep in his bones that he’s meant to be more to Harry than some fleeting one-off fling, never to be seen again.

He’s doing this for the universe.

Bu why did this boy have to happen to him  _now_? Of all the lousy timing, this really takes the fucking cake.

Perhaps soulmates aren’t supposed to have it easy, though? (God, what is he saying? _Soulmates_?? Fuck.)

Sighing dejectedly, Louis pulls down the sleeves of his loose grey hoodie further, and sees Harry do the same in his peripherals. He finally glances up in time to catch the corner of Harry’s mouth quirk again, a sharp pang piercing his innards when he remembers how Harry had called his sweater paws cute earlier in the day.

Harry's eyes momentarily glitter with something akin to fondness.

Maybe he and Harry were only meant to have this one night together.

Maybe they were always meant to have this single wonderful day of doing absolutely nothing but branding each other with newly made, although brief memories.

Ones made of croissant-shaped, non-dates in the park, caramel-soaked smiles, candyfloss kisses and cheap fairground prizes, and a night Louis won’t ever forget.

He should let this be it, treasure this perfect memory of Harry and the time they spent together, and leave it at that.

Which reminds him.

Louis pulls out a tiny brown teddy bear out of the deep front pocket of his hoodie, and holds it out to Harry. "For you," he smiles, feeling silly.

"For me? When did you get this?" Harry says, surprised.

Harry takes the proffered miniature bear, smiling sadly, his eyes glossed over with a bright sheen as he blinks rapidly, cradling the thing in his hand. The bear is practically engulfed by it.

"I won it first try when you went to buy us more beers. I hid it in my jacket. I'm sorry I didn't manage to get you the bigger one."

"Don't be stupid. This is perfect," Harry says, voice hoarse, but he actually seems overwhelmed. "I'll treasure it forever," he laughs wetly, staring at the soft toy a moment longer, before he's safely tucking it away inside his hand luggage.

"Take good care of Bert," Louis nods seriously.

Harry laughs more. "Bert? I think he looks like more of a Louis," he smirks.

"What are you trying to say?" Louis squeaks, pinching his soft hip. The touch automatically wipes the smile clean off Harry's face.

But Louis can't have that, so he abruptly leans up on his tippy toes. Harry’s eyes widen minutely before Louis braces his hands on Harry’s shoulders, bunching up the soft fabric of his white cotton jumper underneath his black leather jacket, and plants a chaste kiss on Harry’s jawline, and another to his cheekbone, lingering in his space just for a moment.

As he pulls away, Harry's eyes track his movement, a frown denting the creamy skin of his forehead.

“Bye, Harry,” Louis all but whispers. “Have a safe flight. Good luck and I hope everything goes well at NYU, yeah? You deserve only good things, Harry. The best things. The most expensive, disgustingly ostentatious things"—Harry chuckles airily, soft and watery, he presses his lips firmly together—"and don’t forget about me too quickly, yeah?” Louis tries to force a laugh, but it comes out stilted. His chest feels tight, like the whole room’s oxygen supply has been squeezed out and Louis' left struggling to breathe.

"No, course not," Harry rumbles, he shakes his head.

"Well. Good, then," Louis nods, faking nonchalance. "I'm glad to hear it."

Harry sighs shakily, his expression pained, heaving his bag over his shoulder, suitcase dragging along the floor with his other hand. He looks like he's about to walk away this time, swiveling his body sideways. Louis takes a shuddery breath, but then before Louis knows what's happening, Harry whirls around and encompasses Louis is a tight hug, burying his face in the crook of Louis' neck, strong arms wrapping around his back, fingers pressing into the fabric of his hoodie, a silent plea until it isn't silent at all. "Don't forget _me_ , will you, eh?" he tries to say lightly, tone slightly hoarse on the last word.

"As if," Louis immediately chokes out, hugging him back harder and clinging to his waist.

"Right, then," Harry says, pulling off and joining the queue. "Okay. See you, Lou."

"Yeah, see you, Harry," he whispers through a smile as his heart is torn to shreds at the familiar nickname.

Fuck. Shit. Ouch. 

Harry smiles one last time and walks along the line which is barely there.

He doesn't look back. 

**

Louis’ drive back to his flat is one moodily reminiscent of a heartbroken character in an indie film, drenched in miserable longing, and singing pathetically along to sad, obscure songs on the radio.

He stops at a McDonalds and at an off-licence to buy a bottle of vodka, (because yes, he's feeling highly sorry for his fucking self) and pulls the car over as he stuffs his face with chicken nuggets and cries his eyes out like a broken man when ' _I Don't Wanna Miss A Thing'_   comes on. Christ, if Niall could see him now. He wails louder as he shoves a burger into his mouth.

"Oh, get your act together. Bloody hell," he says to himself. He'd look utterly ridiculous to an onlooker right now. He takes a deep breath and exhales heavily, before he dusts himself off, chucks his rubbish in the back seat, and turns the key in the ignition.

**

It’s far too quiet as Louis wearily pushes his door open, his gaze lingering on the metallic lettering of 28B of Harry’s now empty, vacant flat. He didn’t even get his surname, he remembers. Fuck. What chance does he have of finding him again now?

Oh, you idiot, Louis. Why didn't he just ask? They could have swapped email addresses at the very least. He thought it would be too hard, or pointless. Now Louis wishes with everything he'd have just fucking asked, slipped his number in his pocket.

Something.

He trudges slowly inside his flat, switches the lights on, kicks of his shoes and chucks his keys on the side, making his way into his bedroom. He kind of hates it now. The sheets are stained and marked with Harry and it makes his heart constrict painfully in his chest.

There’s a dull ache that won’t seem to shift. That isn’t normal, right? What’s it supposed to mean? Louis has a good idea exactly what it means but instead he lets out a frustrated groan and buries his face in his pillow as he dives onto the mattress. It smells of Harry, too. At least he thinks it does—boyish sweat and apple shampoo and the faint hint of cigarette smoke.

Great. Even cigarettes are tainted with the memory of green eyes and a rumbling, deep laugh. And with the way they lazed about in bed, the sheets barely covering them up, sharing a single cigarette back and forth between them in the early hours of the morning after having the best sex Louis’ ever experienced like the fucking clichéd love story Harry and Louis enacted this whole day.

He sighs as he turns over onto his back and stares blankly up at the ceiling. He blindly reaches for his sound system’s remote and un-pauses the last track.

_Wouldn’t it be nice if we could wake up_

_In the morning when the day is new_

_And after having spent the day together_

_Hold each other close the whole night through_

“You curly haired fucker! You took The Beach Boys from me!” he yells before abruptly turning back over, and burying his face back into the pillow as he falls fitfully to sleep, and reluctantly dreams of a boy sailing far and away over the ocean.

**

Louis wakes up to loud banging on his door that sounds more like a drill inside his head, and is seriously convinced he may be dying, head feeling like it’s been run over by a truck several times over.

Just what the fuck did he get up to last night? After collapsing onto his bed from leaving Harry at the airport, Louis can’t remember a thing.

He squints at his alarm clock. It’s almost six in the evening. Shit, he’s slept for almost twelve hours. The banging continues, followed by his phone buzzing on his bedside table. He’s sure he’s not working tonight, so who the fuck is that?

Louis groans as he digs the backs of his palms into his eye sockets.

He swallows down a surge of severe distress at the reminder of Harry, half-afraid it might also be a shitload of vomit fighting its way up Louis’ scratchy throat, and he weakly reaches over his bed for his phone, knocking his yellow lamp over for the umpteenth time, because he distinctly remembers a Niall-shaped person by his side from wherever it was he came from.

Louis dials Niall’s number. Maybe he's in the flat somewhere.

But he's not answering. Ugh. Damn it.

After several beats of agonising silence—because he doesn’t have time to waste, he is _dying_ —he croaks out Niall’s name as loudly as he can manage, sweat beading on his forehead, rummaging a hand through his mussed, probably now greasy mop of hair.

“Niall!” he slurs at the top of his voice which ends in a coughing fit. “Where are you?" Another cough. "Water,” he whispers as though he is a man that has been crawling through the desert for days.

The door finally swings open and Niall staggers in, looking even worse for wear than Louis—who knew that was possible? Bloodshot eyes and sex hair (gross) landing unceremoniously on top of Louis’ aching body, effectively cutting off both his blood flow and oxygen supply.

Louis releases a muffled screech. “Get your dead weight off me, you Irish bastard!"

“You called _me_ ,” Niall grunts, head buried dangerously close to Louis’ nether regions. “And I’ve been banging on the door for ages. Forgot I have an emergency key. We should figure out a safe word, too.”

What on earth is he droning on about? “Why are you even here at this time anyway? Don’t you normally order dinner about now?” Louis says absently, closing his eyes again.

“Huh? It’s six in the morning, why would I eat dinner now? Though I’m desperate for a fry-up, to be honest. Want one?”

“Fry-up?” Louis croaks, frowning. "God, no. Do you want to _kill_ me?"

What day is it, even? Has Louis slept twenty-four hours instead of twelve?

“Niall, what day is it?”

“Tuesday morning.”

“Tuesday? What fucking happened to Monday?” he says in a shrill voice. “Ow!” He holds his head in pain.

“Shit, just how wasted did you get last night? Look, you basically slept all of Monday until I came to check you were still alive because you were ignoring all my calls,” he explains. “That wasn’t cool, by the way. I was worried, you beautiful cunt. Thought you'd choked on your own vomit." He places a hand over Louis’ head. “Jesus, you’re burning up.”

“I’m dying.” 

Louis coughs.

Niall rolls his eyes. “Anyway, you burst into tears, talking about this bloke, Harry? Said you'd only just met him and that he's moved to New York, yeah?”

Louis grunts in acknowledgement.

“So we took you out to cheer you up. And you were partying hard, yeah? Like, shit, you really went for it. Went crazy, started grinding on any bloke who would have you, knocking back drink after drink. Liam almost had a heart attack. He took you home and put you to bed as far as I know. Me? Well, I just got in,” he winks.

Louis groans. Well, seems Louis had fun, then.

“What’s this?” Niall thrusts a piece of paper into Louis’ scowling face that seems to have been stuck to his pillowcase. It’s a post-it. A pink one with an unfamiliar, neat scrawl in red felt tip. Coincidentally, there’s a red felt tip pen on his bedside table, too.

Written on the post-it is a phone number, and on the back is a note.

_I'm stuck on you. Get it? ;) Call me? Maybe? (hah!)_

_You were amazing._

_(Unless, I'm embarrassing myself. Feel free not to, btw.)_

_H xx_

"I think Harry left this on my pillow,” Louis says, confused, heart beating inside his throat with wild hope. Well, no. He _knows_ it’s from Harry. Obviously. But why didn’t he say anything about it? Why not give Louis his number if he wanted to see him again? Why not tell him in person? Was Louis really not being obvious enough? Or maybe Harry was waiting for Louis to give him his number instead?

Oh, god. His head hurts. And he might faint. 

Harry left Louis his number.

“So, what you gonna do about it?” Niall says, burrowing his head into Louis’ chest. “Are you gonna call him?”

Louis exhales.

Does he call?

Because of course Louis _wants_ to call, he wants to see him, and of course he wants a repeat of last, no, two nights ago? Christ, he’s a mess. He’s lost like twenty-four hours of memories. Does he even have a shift tonight? Everything is blurry chaos inside his sludgy brain. When he tries to think, all that comes up is a cloud of static fuzz, and raucous laughter, and neon lights, and too many Jager bombs.

Ugh.

Then he thinks about Harry, and a hue of images take over, like his wide set smiles that produced craters of dimples, the boyish scent of his neck as they moved skin on skin, his firm hands that fawned at his back, his deep, slow voice that sounded like it had been drenched in melted chocolate.

Green eyes.

Of course he’s going to fucking call him.

Inevitable heartbreak be damned. Because it's not like he can hop on a plane and see him right now, is it? But if he can hear his voice, know that he meant as much to Harry and Louis is into him...

Louis whips his body upright, almost startling Niall off the bed, and throws his legs around and dashes to the kitchen, post-it in hand, hearing Niall’s heavy footsteps follow behind him.

“Someone’s eager. Just how good a shag was he?”

Louis shoots Niall a murderous glare. Niall cackles, throwing his hands up. “I’m joking, obviously. I had to listen to your miserable, snotty whining. My shirt was soaked after you’d been slobbering all over it.”

Louis shoots him another glare, an actual death glare.

“I’m kidding!” Niall grasps Louis’ shoulder and gives it a comforting squeeze. “I’d never seen you so actually cut-up about someone like that before, Lou. I know this is serious, I’m just messing. Trying to lighten the mood, you know? I do know this a big deal for you,” he mumbles softly. “And he must be special, this Harry, yeah? For you to get all emotional and soft like this.”

"Yeah. He's like, so special, and cute, and lovely and... yeah." Louis gives him a quick hug, the two patting each other’s backs like idiots. “Thanks, Niall.” He takes a deep breath and stares down at the pink note in his hand, Harry’s number written neatly in red felt tip. All he has to do is call this number and it will be Harry's voice on the other end.

His tummy swoops abruptly. There’s an intense amount of fluttering involved. Fuck. This is stressful.

“Maybe I’ll make a tea first.” He flips the switch on the kettle and gets out a relatively clean mug (maybe he should hire a one-off spring cleaner, do they do those?) and drops a bag of Yorkshire in, hands jerky and trembling with pent-up nervous energy.

This boy has driven him mad.

“Yeah, get some Louis fuel down ya, and call the hell out of that boy. Also, maybe calm down a bit. I’m worried you’re gonna faint on me,” Niall frowns, brows pulled in concern, despite him being the one with bloodshot eyes. Maybe he should offer his friend some ibuprofen. "And drink some water, yeah?" He goes to the sink and runs the cold tap, filling up a glass and pushing it into Louis' hand.

Louis gulps it down without thought.

The kettle starts to boil, the screech of it bringing him back to normality. Louis sticks the post-it down on the worktop, eyes unable to stop staring at the number until they blur together. His head really is pounding.

“Get on it, because for all Harry knows, a whole day has passed and you still haven’t called so, who knows, he might have gone out on his first night in New York and shagged someone else because he thinks you’ve rejected him or—”

“Fuck, Niall, don’t say that!”

Louis hopes that’s not the case. He would have waited a little longer for Louis to contact him, surely? What if Louis was busy? Harry wouldn't have just. But. He doesn't owe Louis anything. And. Oh, god. What if Harry thought he had his answer?

Shit, shit, shit.

The kettle stops.

In his mad haste and with adrenaline spiked veins, Louis pours the boiled water in far too quickly and hazardously, splashing his arm with boiling hot water droplets. “Ah, shit you buggering fuck!” he shouts, picking up the mug and finding his other limb is like jelly, regrettably spilling brewing tea all over the post-it that Louis fucking idiotically stuck to the worktop right next to it.

Oh, my fucking god. 

The water smudges the red numbers until the paper is a soggy mess of mush.

Louis hurriedly picks it up with wide eyes of horror. “No, no, no!” he screams. “Fuck! It’s ruined! Niall, do something!”

Niall makes a cringe face. “Oh, yikes,” he says most unhelpfully, hands in his hair. "Oh, that's done."

Louis stares at the no longer visible number, a blob of red ink, body frozen in stunned silence, before he carefully starts to spread the soggy post-it out on the worktop. “Fuck, quick, Niall. Help me with the numbers... I think it starts with um, zero. Uh, seven,” Louis squints, manic.

“Lou, all mobile numbers start with zero-seven."

“You’re not helping, Niall! Zero. Seven. Eight?"

Fuck, this is impossible.

He’s just ruined his only link to Harry. The only fucking way of seeing him again. He can't even search for him on Instagram or anything because he doesn't know his fucking surname and he never asked!

“Oh, shit. That’s a fucking load of bad luck,” he hears Niall’s voice say. “I'm sorry, mate," he continues, tone sympathetic. "Lou, are you alright?”

Louis mechanically gets down on the kitchen floor and lies there, limbs spread out like a dead starfish for a solid two minutes, body motionless, not uttering a word, barely even exhaling a breath.

At some point, after giving up on saying his name repeatedly, Niall lies down on the floor next to him and pats his head like a dog. “Are you alive, mate?” He feels Niall poke a finger in his side, and Louis suddenly bursts into hysterical laughter, writhing on the floor like a maniac. “I don’t even know his surname," he howls laughing.

“Look, we'll figure something out. What about the landlord? Couldn’t you ask him?”

Louis’ ears spike up, abruptly ending his laughter. “Are they allowed to give out that information?”

“I don’t know," he offers uncertainly, "like, probably not, but it’s worth a try? Ask one of the neighbours if they know his full name, too?” he suggests.

“Niall, you’re a genius!” Louis yells. “How did I not think of any of this? I’m losing my mind.” He erratically runs his hands though his air, causing it to stick up like he’s been electrocuted. He sort of feels that way already.

Louis jumps up from the floor unceremoniously, but he knows it’s going to happen before he even catches his breath, and predictably, he slips on the puddle of tea slash water in actual slow-motion and lands heavily on his backside, but not before he takes an almighty whack to the head, courtesy of the open, bottom cupboard door and knocks himself out.

 


	4. The Phone Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back with an update after over a year?? You bet. I've dusted this off and I'm ready to finish this at last. Hope this is okay! xx

  

There’s  _someone_  persistently tapping at Louis’ cheek and he’s so close to blowing up and giving them a piece of his irritable, exhausted, infatuated mind.

Another tame slap makes him blink. A more forceful one this time, causing him to jolt terribly in surprise. (A very unhappy surprise.)

“Louis?” comes an infuriatingly  _loud_  voice. “You okay down there? Come on, mate. You’re fine. Up you get.”

A clammy hand grabs for his wrist. Louis whips it away as soon as the pads of their fingers touch his skin.

No.

Leave him alone. He’s quite content down here, thanks.

If the definition of ‘content’ has changed in the dictionary recently to:

  1. Content. _Adjective_. 1. In a state of  _fucking tired and crazily pining for a boy he barely knows who's currently living across the Atlantic and he may never see again._



No? Okay, well, then. Louis Tomlinson has just written in a new meaning.

“Oi. Come on, get up. You’re increasingly my blood pressure, you bastard. I’m a wreck, you knob. You dick. Youꟷ”

“Shush," Louis groans, attempting to blink one pitiful eye open.

Blonde. Creased brows. Serious blue eyes. Blonde. Fake blonde. (Actually rather cuddly.)

“Get off me, Niall,” Louis snaps, scowling at the rude interruption of his spontaneous moment of self-pitying (and brief knockout?), his floppy hand immediately reaching for the spot just above his eyebrow and along his temple. It’s throbbing a huge fucking amount, but he’s not bleeding so, hey, that’s something. He’ll just likely gain a massive bruise over his eye socket. That’ll be fun going into work with. Splendid stuff.

Ugh, he feels pathetic.

He stays flat on the floor a few moments longer, until he can take no more Irish, worried mumbling and heaves himself upright. He leans his back against the kitchen cupboards, the handle digging uncomfortably into the bottom of his spine, but he can’t be bothered to move, just sits there with his legs open on the floor like a forlorn toddler. Correction. Grumpy toddler.

Groggily, Louis scrubs his face with his hands a bit too roughly and blinks his eyes open to three of Niall, which is terrifying in itself, to be honest, and he’s now extremely aware that the throbbing by his eye is now a stinging sensation on his right temple. He woozily slinks down the cupboard, moving to lie flat out on the tiles again, and groans, trying to blink away his blurry vision and curl into a ball, the dull pain thudding into his skull, trying to carve out his consciousness—and perhaps also his heart.

Because he’s a beyond ridiculous, yearning fool, hung up on a fleeting, albeit fucking incredible, one-night-stand with a beautiful whimsical boy with dimples the size of craters and sleek, flowing corkscrew curls.

Stark, static memories of burning hands and damp lips and sweaty heat, and shameless  _moaning_ fights for entry back inside Louis’ foggy, muddled, pounding head and he groans louder, pained, covering his face with his hands and whimpering into them.

Because no. No. Nope. He can’t deal with these intrusive flashes of Harry, okay? He’s probably never going to see him again. That much is obvious. Just. No. He can’t think about this ever again. Ever.

It’s torturous.

And Louis feels ridiculous. Did he mention that already? What the fuck is happening.

“He’s alive!” Niall’s voice yells dramatically and Louis hisses, clutching his face harder, rolling over onto his stomach to curl in on himself like a ball. “He’s alive! Thank Christ. Thought we’d have to get you down to fucking A&E. There’s no way I could drive you with the amount of whiskey still in my system. And Liam doesn’t have his license renewed—” Then he hears another voice, a far more solemn voice, panicked and somewhat high-pitched. Vaguely like a squeaky, hysterical animal. Most definitely not Irish, anyway.

The voice starts to speak in a muffled, hazy tone, and perhaps Louis is slightly disorientated. Slightly.

“Shush, Niall, please! He might have a concussion! And, hey. I _can_  drive.” Louis can hear the sensitive, petulance seeping out of his pouty, strong West Midlands accent.

Yep, that’s Liam. Human Puppy/Teddy Bear/Batman extraordinaire and one of Louis’ best friends.

At least Liam’s not dressed as Batman right now, or Louis really would be worried he’d sustained a serious head injury. He’s definitely not ready to visit Superhero Paradise.

“Really? With the way you drive, mate, I could have sworn you’d had it taken off ya. You’re not really Bruce Wayne, you know?”

Liam groans, crouching down beside Louis with concerned eyebrows, big brown eyes taking in Louis’ delicate condition.

“Louis, can you hear us? Lou? Lou? Lou?” God, Louis’ going to punch someone if he carries on. He sounds like a bloody owl. “Lou? Hold up two fingers if everything’s okay, mate,” Liam instructs needlessly.

Oh, Louis holds up two fingers alright.

Liam clears his throat. “Well, then. I walked straight into that one, didn’t I?” he sighs. Niall laughs raucously, throwing his head back. He runs out of the room and into Louis’ bedroom and comes back again, stopping right in front of where Louis’ sat on the kitchen floor.

He snaps a fucking picture of him.

“For the next time you fall in love and need to be reminded why it’s a bad fucking idea,” Niall explains.

“Shut up,” Louis says lowly, blinking up at Niall and positively  _glaring._  Niall shuts up immediately but rolls his eyes, a smirk tugging his lips. Not before Liam slaps him upside the head, though. Louis snorts. Niall looks utterly betrayed, rubbing his head.

“So. I’m not dead, then?” Louis croaks, slowly lifting himself back up and sits back on his arms, legs still separated, his joggers almost half way down his bum. He wriggles to get them back up.

“No, of course you’re not. Honestly.” Liam hefts him up from under his armpits and Niall takes his legs. Louis briefly resists from kicking out his frustrations but allows himself to be manhandled. He does like being manhandled. “And you’re not bleeding either. So that’s one good thing. One more reason for me not to have a stroke. You’re not feeling too dizzy, are you?”

“Nah, I’m okay. Just feels like a ton of bricks have been dropped on me head. Nothing major.”

“That’ll be the whiskey,” Niall winks.

Liam frowns. “Yeah, no thanks to you. Bloody encouraging him last night.”

“Uh, you were a bloody animal, too, I seem to remember.! Liam turns away haughtily. "Whose tongue did you have down your throat? That Zach, was it?” Niall looks smug, hands on his hips.

Liam blushes. “Zayn,” he mutters.

“Whomst?”

“Louis drank far too much last night and you know it,” he says sternly, quickly changing the subject. “Anything could have happened if he’d gone home with any one of those dodgy blokes.” He folds his arms, stubbornly not looking at Niall.

“Oh, they were dressed in boas, man! He was having fun, at least. The poor kid’s heartbroken,” Niall protests.

“Please,” Louis whines. “I don’t need the reminder. Even though I don’t even remember anything past blinding neon lights and a lot of suggestive touching in private places by faceless lads.”

“See?” Liam says, shooting another disapproving look at Niall, who merely shrugs, slumping down next to Louis and sighing labouredly as he tips his head back, hands clasping tightly onto his ankles.

“How long was I out?” Louis asks, when he suddenly realises he’s being picked up again and carried like he’s lost the use of both his legs. He frowns, indignant and worried he’s suffering from short-term memory loss. “Uh... what on earth are you two doing to me?” he says, but after a moment he decides it feels nice being the one fussed over for a change. Because it’s not like he doesn’t like being doted on and generally treated like a king by his boys. It’s extremely flattering, and Louis thrives off the attention.

“Loving you,” Niall says casually.

Liam scoffs but he’s smiling. Louis’ own lips quirk. “Why, yes, I am a loveable, Northern rogue, so you can’t be blamed,” he murmurs lazily, eyes fluttering closed.

The boys softly deposit Louis onto the sofa and sit down on either side of him, perched on the armrests, book-ending him, each of them holding one of his limbs affectionately, Liam holding his wrist and Niall’s hand wrapped around his calf, giving him gentle squeezes.

 “So I was out for how long? Did I ask that already?” Louis slurs, mouth dry.

“You were literally out three seconds,” Niall tells him. “If that.”

Liam gets up and quickly comes back to the sofa, holding out a bag of frozen peas for Louis to hold against his head and thrusts another glass of water into his other hand. “Drink this. You’re probably dehydrated as anything right now.”

“Thanks, honey,” Louis says, gulping down the water and releases a satisfied, juvenile gasp once he’s done. Niall takes it out of his hand and trudges to the fridge to re-fill it. “Thank you, darling,” he calls out to a grunt.

“I walked in just when it happened,” Liam says. “You just took ages to move because you’re a dramatic rascal, aren’t you?” Louis shoots a half-hearted dirty look Liam’s way, fingers frozen as he presses the bag of peas to his temple, wincing. “Although, maybe we should take you to the hospital to be on the safe side?” he says, worry in his voice. Niall hands him the re-filled glass. He takes it gratefully and blows Niall an air kiss, earning him a lazy ruffle of his hair.

“I’m fine,” Louis insists,  _oofing_  when Niall lands in his lap. “Just got a headache,” he says slowly, “and a fucking bony Irishman on me,” pouting as another scowl forms and he remembers the events leading up to his little accident, his almighty hangover setting in again rapidly. “I feel terrible, though. Help me. I’m pathetic. I’m so  _tired_ ,” he moans.

“How about we stay with you today, yeah?” Liam offers, fingers playing delicately with the ends of Louis’ hedgehog hair, sticking up and out every which way. “I’ve not got work today, anyway.” The sensation is soothing, and Louis has such amazing friends.

Louis softly plops his head down on Liam’s shoulder, letting his eyes flutter shut, because he feels sick and his head hurts and every part of his body is on fire, and in the completely awful, painful way, too. (And the lovesick way.) “Thanks babes, you’re both the best.”

He feels Liam slide onto the sofa cushions and the three of them huddle up, falling to sleep until they’re startled awake by the next-door neighbour’s offensively loud playing of ‘Uptown Funk’.

**

Louis spends the following days growing more and more anxious that Harry thinks Louis doesn’t care. That Louis saw his number that he left him on the side of his pillow, cutely written on a post-it, and because he’d heard nothing in days, Harry assumed Louis wanted nothing more to do with him.

That Harry, did in fact, embarrass himself, and Louis was not going to ever call him back. That it was indeed a one-night stand and Louis has no intention of ever repeating the event.

It’s making him feel sick, frankly. He thinks about it incessantly. Obsessively. He can’t sleep, he can barely eat. Thinking of Harry thinking about him, sitting at the fountain outside the university steps of NYU, wondering what he did wrong.

Or Louis is being incredibly presumptuous, and Harry is not giving him a second thought, is already settling into his new life in New York, partying it up in the city, making interesting new friends, taking amazing, artistic photographs, having a fucking ball and snogging the face off a pretentious fucker, and has easily, completely forgotten every trace of Louis.

Forgotten Louis ever existed.

While Louis struggles to get back to normality and back to his ordinary, unexciting, exhausting life.

But.

Harry pleaded that Louis wouldn't forget  _him,_  though? Didn’t he? They hugged goodbye, practically crying over the fact that they were being separated after one bloody day of knowing each other existed. Louis didn’t make that up. That happened, and it felt genuine. 

And Harry kissed him  _again._  That desperate, passionate, up-against-the-wall kiss that had Louis weak in the knees, craving more, more, more.

Was that all a lie? Silly things only said and done in the moment? Over-emotional words still heavily laced with the effects of alcohol consumption? Adrenaline-fuelled and sex-hazy thoughts that were regretted as soon as day broke?

It’s driving him mad. He’s so fucking restless. What did he even used to do with his spare time before Harry?

Oh, yes. Draw. He should really get on with finishing up some of his sketches.

And Louis doesn’t do well when left alone with his thoughts. It only serves as a cause to make him even more agitated and paranoid. He has a tendency to mope at times.

So instead Louis tries to get on with things as normal, tries to drift back into his routine like nothing happened, as though a pretty boy with chocolate curls didn’t invade his life and tip it right fucking upside down and mess everything up.

He goes to work.

He does get on with his sketches and finishes a new scene of a strip he was in the middle of before Harry happened.

He even did a thorough clean-up of his flat and now everything smells like the freshness of spring and vanilla scented candles.

There’s even been some good news.

He’s pleasantly surprised with the information that he’s come into a generous sum of money through an insurance claim on his car from months back, in which Louis narrowly, and ironically, dodged a repair garage when he realised the cheap car he’d bought had faulty brakes. He’d jumped out of the door feeling like a gay, much better-looking Tony Stark, and managed to sprain his shoulder in the process. And crack a rib. Well, not _crack,_ exactly. But it bloody well felt like it. 

The male nurse tending to him was properly fit, though.

And then there was the really, really good news.

Another week later, Louis received an email from a US magazine publisher, expressing interest in his and Niall's comic book ideas.

He should be expecting another phone call about details any day now.

Which is just awesome. Amazing. Louis is ecstatic, can’t quite believe anybody wants to actually read his stuff, that anyone even remotely like his sketches, let alone a publication from America, but of course he’s not complaining. This is what he’s always hoped and wanted, and it’s looking really promising that he’ll get one of his stories published online soon.

So things are going surprisingly well.

Too well.

He’s suspicious.

And then there’s the new character he’s currently working on, one that might have a particularly similar resemblance to a certain someone, but nobody needs to know that. (He attached a draft copy of this new thing he’s working on in the reply to the possibly life-changing email, just in case.)

But of course, no matter how hard he tries, Louis has still not managed to stop thinking about him.

About Harry.

That perfect boy that was living, breathing art on legs.

Louis cringes. It’s way past the point of being obsessive now, he thinks. However, he’s pretty much given up hope of contacting him again, and tomorrow he’s decided he’ll go out and let Niall and Liam be his wing men.

Because tomorrow will be the start of a new chapter. He’s on his way to making real money and getting his comics published and things should be looking up.

Yeah. One more day of wallowing and then it’s time to wipe the slate clean and direct his attention elsewhere.

It’s only healthy, right? (As his current behaviour as of late is screaming it's anything but. Clearly.)

Besides, he can use this experience and write it into his stories. Life is literally handing him over a shit ton of inspiration in the shape of green eyes, heartbreak and legs that never end. (And which would look amazing in a one piece.)

He's done all he can do without knowing any real personal details about Harry. He spent a whole day trailing the doors of his floor, and the floor below, inquiring if any of them know of Harry at all. But the ones who did answer made it quite clear that no one really talks to each other here, Louis included. So that was a waste of time. Nor can he get hold of his landlord and he’s not entirely sure he would actually tell him Harry’s full name, anyway. He’s a bit of a moody bastard. And even if he is allowed to give out that information, he’d likely take great pleasure in seeing Louis beg. Fucking prick.

Harry’s family don’t seem to have dropped by to collect anything he’s left behind either, unfortunately. If they were ever going to. Or else they’ve come and gone while Louis has been at work.

So now it’s been ten days since Harry, and he’s curled up on the sofa, blanket draped over his lap and feet because he’s too lazy to go and put on socks, mindlessly watching some trash reality show that’s making his eyes bleed out his brain cells, stuffing his face with a bag of crisps. Or five. (They’re ‘fun size’ packs. And they’re not fun in any way.)

There’s a knock on the door. Louis sighs loudly, dramatically, pained to have to get up and answer. Don’t people realise Louis is perfectly fine being self-pitying and moping in his sorrow without moving a muscle, thanks.

He whips off his blanket and brushes off the crumbs on his jumper that’s practically swallowing his frame and pads slowly over to the door.

“Liam,” he nods, rolling his eyes when his friend thinks it’s fine to barge in as soon as he’s opened the door, but he’s bouncing a bit on the soles of his feet, waiting for Louis to shut the front door, and then follows Louis to the sofa, where’s there’s crumbs and rubbish, and questionable remnants of other types of food everywhere, (yeah, the tidy flat didn’t last too long) along with several empty mugs on the coffee table, a bunch of colouring pens and pencils, his drawing pad open precariously and the crisp packets Louis disregarded carelessly on the floor because Louis is a mess.

There’s a box of tissues balanced on a pillow, too, that thankfully Louis hasn’t needed to use much.

Liam eyes him weirdly. Particularly oddly, even for Liam.

“What?” Louis says defensively.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it.”

Liam continues to look shifty, so Louis collapses back onto the sofa and throws an arm over his face.

“Do you want a drink?” Louis asks.

“No, I’m fine. Thanks.” Liam sits himself far too close to Louis and he’s itching to shove him away, not in the mood for affection unless it’s of the love-making kind, and only if it’s with Harry, but that’s never going to happen again, so he really should take his own advice and shut the hell up about it.

Tomorrow he’ll find another fit bloke, who’s even more beautiful and who’ll knock his socks off, and he’ll laugh at ever having been hung up on Harry.

(He will.)

(Maybe.)

(Ugh. He won’t.)

“Okay, well, I know something that’s gonna make you happy,” Liam sings after a minute or two, apparently feeling braver with the information he’s got and is here to tell Louis about.

“Oh, god. What is it? You’ve not signed me up on another dating app, have you? I told you I’ll come out with you lot when I’m—”

“Nope. It’s better than that. Miles better.” Liam claps his hands together and rubs them with glee, giggling like an over-excited child.

“What’s gotten into you, you weirdo?”

“You’re gonna be so happy about this.”

“Well, please enlighten me before I doze off,” Louis deadpans, yawning with a stretch. Liam’s hand immediately goes for the slither of exposed skin at his hips to tickle him.

“Liam,” he whines, flinching.

Liam continues grinning at him creepily, eyes slits and practically hunching up in delight. Like a bloody gnome or elf or something. Weirdo.

“In your own time, Liam, please,” Louis quips.

“I know someone who's mates with Harry at NYU.”

Louis whips his head up so fast he might have whiplash. “You what?”

“Your boy’s full name is Harry Styles—”

“He’s not  _my boy_ —”

“—and he’s friends with my mate, Andrew. Knew exactly who I was talking about as soon as I mentioned a guy starting at NYU who's just moved there from London and is enrolled in photography. They’ve _both_ moved there from London, see, and apparently Andrew already knew Harry in certain circles—and oh! Apparently, I've already met your Harry quite a few times too! Small world, eh? Yeah, so they got talking about it. Andrew and Harry. Styles. Harry. That’s who you’re looking for. Harry Styles. He’s friends with him on Instagram, too. Look.” Liam gets out his phone and brings up the app. There’s indeed a black and white picture of Harry standing in front of the fountain, sunglasses on and wearing a long, black coat, hands outstretched for the picture like the world is his oyster, a small grin on his face.

Harry.

“That’s him, right?”

“Yes,” he whispers. “Oh, my god!” Louis then cries, almost whacking his friend in the face with his flailing arms. “Oh, my god, Li!” he squeaks, indignant, but so relieved. “That’s him!”

“I know! Imagine if I hadn’t spoken to Andrew today? It could have been months before we figured it out!” Liam thrusts a piece of paper into his face. “Harry’s number. And I guess you can add him on Instagram now, too,” he smiles.

Louis takes it in his hands like it’s the Holy Grail, before he’s then furiously typing it into his phone and saving the number under his name. Under H.

Harry.

It looks perfect. He kisses Liam messily on his cheek, and Liam smiles, wide and crinkly. “Thank you so much for knowing someone who knows Harry,” Louis says, delirious.

“Well, call him then, for god’s sake,” Liam chuckles. “So, we can all have a break,” he rolls his eyes, but he’s still beaming, genuinely pleased for him.

God. He can call Harry.

**

Because of the five-hour time difference, Louis guessed Harry probably had a lecture to attend in the early afternoon, so Louis hopped straight into the shower and let the hot spray pour over his jittery body, humming with adrenaline and excitement, relishing in the heat clouding his senses for a bit. He was so fucking relieved and ecstatic that he could contact Harry but so exhausted, and all because of one boy.

God, the way Louis was so encompassed by all this. Louis felt a wince of shame and tiny bit of embarrassment at his reckless, over-the-top behaviour recently, but the only thing keeping him sane was the gut feeling that Harry felt exactly the same about him. That he wasn't being a complete idiot with everything. Maybe Harry was having a hard time, too? 

(What a wonder hope was. He’d completely changed his tune now that he has the means to speak to Harry if he wants to. And fuck, does he want to.)

Still, though, Louis felt quite dramatic about it all, and was trying to grab his hold on the road back to normality and try to be less hysterical about everything. (Really, though, it was a stretch of an ask.) The alcohol had pretty much passed out of his system now, anyway.

Sobriety was a wake-up call.

Because he knew for sure now, just how much he genuinely likes Harry, tipsy or mind-blowing drunk after a whirlwind date/hook-up or not.

So much for slowing things down, though, because when Louis re-appears after his shower, there’s only one thought burning on his mind.

He looks to Liam and Niall, who are helpfully cleaning up the flat (Liam), and lying down on the sofa stuffing their faces with plain tortilla chips (Niall), and clears his throat to alert to his presence.

They both look up.

He puts his hands on his hips, wearing his hood up. “Okay, kids. You’re my best friends, and you both love me, and want me to be happy, right?”

Emotional blackmail. Always the way to go. Niall tilts his head tiredly mid-crunch and puts them down.

“What do you want, Lou?” Liam asks, suspicious.

“Well, Liam, I’m glad you asked.” Louis plops himself down on the coffee table and folds his hands together, a sheepish expression taking over his face, grimacing. “I need to borrow some money...”

“Jesus. You’re not actually going to fly out there, are you?” Niall mumbles, hand paused inside his bag of crisps.

Liam snaps his head at that, eyes widening comically. “Louis. Come on. Be realistic, mate. I said call him, not fly out to bloody America!”

“What’s not realistic?” Louis shoots back, high pitched.

“Have you called him yet?”

“No.”

“Spoke to him on DM?”

“No.”

“Spoke to him or contacted him at all in any way since I gave you his name?”

“No.”

“So how do you even know Harry wants to see you? You can’t just show up!” Liam laughs. "He might be busy. He might—" he pointedly shuts his mouth. Louis doesn't want to know what he was going to say next.

“Um, did you miss the part where he left me his number on my _pillow_?” Louis reminds him, crossing his legs on the coffee table and folding his arms up defensively against his chest. There's a pen digging into his bum cheek. He retrieves it only to then childishly chuck it across the room.

“Yeah, I know that. And I gave it to you a second time because I _do_ want you to be happy," Liam says more seriously. "And I’m not saying he won’t be happy to see you, too. But," he sighs, rubbing a hand over his hair, "Lou, you can’t just ambush him at his uni without telling him. And I don’t know— See, Andrew said—” But he stops again, and Liam looks unsure now, slightly conflicted. And well. This is a 180. He’s changed his tune?

And Andrew? Wait. What did Andrew say? Shit, does Louis even want to know?

"What? Andrew said what, Liam? Do you know something about Harry?" Louis leans forward, hands gripping his knees.

Liam pauses, seemingly hearing the rising hysteria in Louis' voice and closes his mouth again. Niall looks on at the two of them, munching his tortillas solemnly, a deep crease between his light brows.

“I just mean. Like. Well, how would it even work? Really? Harry's studying in New York for the next three years, Lou. You live here. Are you really prepared to enter a long-distance relationship?”

“Whoa, whoa. Let’s just dial things back a notch, shall we? Who said I was looking to get into a relationship with Harry?”

Liam gives him a dubious look. “This is you we’re talking about. You’ve wanted a proper relationship for as long as I’ve known you. Commitment’s like... your kink or something,” he says, nose crinkling in mild confusion. “Don’t act like that wasn’t the first thing you thought about.”

“Alright, fine,” Louis grumbles. “But I know he feels the same, I just know. And I know it’s crazy. Trust me. None of this is logical. I am fully aware how very insane I'm being right now. Just so you know.”

"We didn't say you were insane."

"Yeah, but this is pretty damn ridiculous. Even for me."

"Yeah," Niall scoffs, still munching, eyes concentrated on Louis. "I've told you. Don't fall in love at first sight. They spit you up and chew you out and before you know it, you're on your own at a pub, feeling like you've been hit by a fucking truck. She didn't even apologise for stomping on my heart, man."

"Alright, Niall," Liam says, tapping him comfortingly on the shoulder. "Alright."

Niall puts the tortillas down and sits on the floor, frowning.

"No, I just think you should get to know him a bit better first. Email him or start messaging him or something," Liam continues.

"I've already slept with him, Liam. I think I know him pretty intimately there."

"So what? So you've slept with the guy. Do you know much about his life or who he is at all beyond that? This isn't just about the bedroom, Lou."

"I know that!"

"Okay. So, do you know things about him? Things that mean something? Personal stuff?"

"Uh, yes. I do," Louis replies haughtily. 

"Care to share?" Niall pipes up. 

"No," Louis sniffs, pulling his hood further down. "I don't, actually."

“Look, we know you're really into this guy, like genuinely into him, but just give him a ring first, Lou,” Niall says. “The two of you should talk it out. See what you both want, and where you go from here,” he shrugs, turning his attention back to his chips. “He's going to be studying abroad for the next few years. And like Liam said. You work here. You live here in London. That's not ideal, is it? So talk to him. Get to know him more. And then think about the next step you might take if you both really are into each other for real. Or it was just some sort of idealised, good shag and nothing else.”

Louis blinks. “Wow, Nialler, you can be extremely wise when you want to be. Anyone ever tell you that?”

“Every damn day,” Niall mumbles, rolling his eyes and kicking his feet up onto the coffee table where Louis' foot rests, crossing his ankles as he leans his back against the sofa. Louis rolls his own eyes. “I don’t know why everyone is always so surprised. I have a degree in politics. I'm not an idiot."

“No, I know that. Good for you, Niall."

"Don't patronise me, child."

Louis shares a smirk with Liam, who’s then striding over, with a serious downward pull of the lips now. “How much would you need for a ticket, then?”

Louis’ stomach feels ten times lighter. “Are you serious?”

“Yes,” Liam rumbles, smile slowly spreading over his stubble-clad cheeks. "But you can't fly over to see him until you've at least started talking again. Deal?"

“I will pay you back as soon as humanly possible, I promise.” Louis jumps half way in the air, gripping both of his shoulders as he bounces on the soles of his feet.

“I know, you will,” Liam sighs, smiling. “Just please, for the love of God, warn him first and call him.”

**

Louis doesn’t call Harry. At least not yet. Instead, Louis spends the evening moping and eating and thinking incessantly about Harry. Obviously.

He’s slumped with his back leaning against the headboard of his bed, earbuds in and staring pensively at the wall, awash in shadows from the amber glow of his bedside lamp. There’s this persistent bout of nausea that keeps prodding at his joints and his insides, making him feel unsteady despite sitting completely still. His shirt is stained with spaghetti and there’s probably remnants of the sauce around his mouth, and god, is his head still aching like a brick’s been chucked at his temple in a fit of blind rage.

He dozed off earlier, waking up with a fierce hatred of Niall. (He was the brick thrower in his dream. Nightmare. Whatever.)

Because maybe he exhausted himself after the realisation that he’s crashing back to reality.

And maybe thinking about booking flights and such is a bit of a hasty thing to do, or to even be considering. He’s barely graduated university. He’s currently working a dead-end, bar job, he has very little savings thus far. He needs to think about this. Properly.

He can’t go waltzing into an impractical, romanticized, long-distance relationship with a boy who he’s spent _one day_ with ever and think it will be all fairytale-like and plain-sailing, brimming with cutesy late-night phonecalls and long, gushing emails and constant _distance-makes-the-heart-grow-fonder_ conversations and emotions.

Because the truth of the matter is, Louis barely knows who Harry is. He’s the gorgeous, charismatic and cute neighbour he knew nothing about and spent a lovely day with. And of course, had an incredible shag with, but let’s not lower the tone.

This is not about Louis being so hung up on the sex they had that he’s willing to pay hundreds of pounds for another round. Jesus.

This is about Louis wanting to know Harry as a person and struggling to deal with the fact he no longer lives in the same country as Louis, and that the possibility of anything ever transpiring between them again is a good three years away, if ever.

But anyway. This is all a pointless way of wasting some time.

It’s not realistic.

And god, Louis doesn’t care.

Stupid.

He needs to call Harry. Needs to find out if he’s the only one pining here like an absolute loser. If Harry has even thought about him much at all. He’ll be busy. Taking his classes and making friends and settling into his new home.

But he needs to speak to him because then Louis should get some perspective once he does. Over these nonsensical Kool-Aid delusions, he’s been drinking a gallon of. (He doesn’t even know what Kool-Aid is. That’s the urban dictionary, for you.)

Even if in the back of his mind, he’s already planning trips around the holiday time he has booked off in a few weeks, and irresponsibly considers just tacking it all on his credit card.

Not the brightest idea, but it’s an option if it turns out Harry is as gone for Louis as Louis is for him. He’s got no idea what he’s thinking. If he’s even thinking at all. Because the thing is, Louis knows full well he sounds ridiculous. Fuck, he really does.

This is crazy. Fucking crazy, and yet he’s still going to do it. Wow. At least he has supportive friends. Louis would be having a field day with merciless jokes if this was Liam or Niall.

And so now he’s sitting cross-legged on his bed, staring at the number stored in his phone.

Harry’s number. He looks up the right country code to use, types it all in. Okay.

Wait. What’s the time? Almost half eleven. Okay. So New York is five hours behind. It’ll be half six there. Harry will be finished with his classes by now. He hopes he won’t be interrupting anything.

He takes a deep breath and presses on his contact. The dial tone starts immediately, and Louis’ tummy does a violent swoop, throat closing up as his mind goes dark. Shit. Oh my god. This a thing that’s happening right now. He might keel over. What’s he even going to say? Louis suddenly doesn’t even know what he wants to ask—

“Hello?” a familiar deep voice rumbles on the line. It instantly sends a surge of shivers flourishing all over Louis' body, and he’s holding his phone in a white knuckled grip. For a solid five seconds, Louis can’t for the life of him open his mouth to make himself speak.

So this clearly this is going incredibly well so far. 

“Hello?” Harry says again and Louis can even hear the small frown in his voice. His heart constricts.

“Hi,” he finally says, voice hoarse. He clears his throat. “Um, hi, Harry. It’s. It's Louis?” he says, nervously laughing.

There's a long pause.

"Louis?” comes Harry's surprised voice. It almost sounds like he doesn't know a Louis though... Oh, my god. Does he even remember him?

The crackle of the line brings Louis out his fuzziness, caught on the sound of his own name sliding smoothly off Harry’s tongue. Harry’s very talented tongue... Anyway.

Words. Come on, words.

“Yep. That would be me. Louis. Tomlinson, by the way. We, uh. You do know me, right?"

There’s another long pause.

“Oh, my god. Louis? Is that you?” he breathes. “I can’t believe you're— You called me. Um. God. You actually did. Uh." There's a lot of shuffling on the other end of the line, several voices in the background and some car horns beeping, and then: "How are you? I thought that... When you didn’t call— Shit. I’m so glad you called."

"You are?" Louis asks, trying hard to keep the blatant hope out of his voice. It's a washout, though.

"Yeah, of course," Harry insists. "I wasn’t sure if maybe— I just wasn’t sure you would now. Since it's been like, ten days now, and I thought that there was no way, it had been a little too long and if you really wanted to call me, you— and sorry, I’m rambling. Shit. Uh. Hi. Are you okay?" He laughs. And Louis can tell it’s a nervous laugh, breathless, shocked even. 

Louis loves the sound of it, let's it fill up his chest, biting on his bottom lip to suppress the beam that’s starting to spread across his burning face, his hands slightly trembling with all the adrenaline and anticipation.

“Yeah. God, I’m sorry. I know it’s been well over a week since, yeah, but there was an incident with the post-it you left me? Like, I didn’t see it that first night. I wasꟷ well, I wasn’t in a fit state to take much in, really.”

“But you did want to call me?” Harry asks softly, tentatively.

“I did. I wanted to carry on speaking to you as soon as I left you at the airport.”

There's more shuffling on the other end, a soft click and then rustling, the sound of a chair scraping across floor. 

“Um. You can’t see me, but I thought I’d let you know I’m smiling like an idiot right now,” Harry mumbles, smile evident in his voice, and god, angels are singing in Louis’ ears, he’s so deliriously giddy.

“Me too. I probably look very embarrassing right now.”

“I bet you look gorgeous,” Harry says quietly, tone over the edge of flirtation.

“You’re right there.”

Harry laughs softly.

“And then when I finally did see your note,” Louis continues, “extremely hungover, I... well, I somehow managed to drench it in tea and into a soggy, illegible mess and then I fell into a short depression, so,” he says dryly.

There’s another beat of quiet and then:

A honking laugh startles Louis to jump halfway into the air as he listens to Harry’s hysterical laughter. Louis proceeds to laugh along with him and spread out his limbs on his bed, gripping a pillow to his chest like a smitten teenager, cheeks heating up dramatically.

“I can’t believe this,” Harry laughs. “God, I seriously thought I’d been jilted.” He giggles down the line and Louis feels drunk, dizzy, like he’s about to float away just from hearing Harry laugh. “When I didn’t hear from you after a few days I thought you weren’t interested... so I got completely shitfaced. I was so... Gutted.”

Louis starts guffawing beyond his control, lightheaded. 

“Why are you laughing?” Harry murmurs, voice laced with softness. “I was distraught! How very dare you!”

Delirious giggles laced with relief and joy and fucking immense surprise at the confirmation Harry was feeling just as lost and unhappy as Louis. Not that he wanted Harry to feel like that, of course not. But it feels comforting to know that whatever Louis’ been feeling for Harry, it’s returned.

“So was I! I completely lost it, Harry. You need to answer for what you’ve done to me. You turned me into a right mess. It was seriously pathetic.”

“Back at you,” Harry says, and god, if this isn’t sending Louis through a mild spell of hysteria.

There’s a few beats of quiet again, and then:

“I’ve really missed you,” Harry says earnestly, so softly spoken that Louis falls backwards onto the mattress, curling up on his side with his phone clutched tighter in his hand. "Is that crazy? I mean, technically, I barely know you, but I kind of, like, feel like I do? I felt like that straight away. Am I being super embarrassing right now?"

"No," Louis snorts, laughing softly. "Because if you are, then you don't wanna know what I am," he grins through the phone, like he can somehow transfer the gesture through the sound waves and into Harry's eyes. 

"Oh, you have got to tell me more. Don't leave me hanging. Like, you already have done," Harry tacks on.

"Oh, got me again." Louis rolls over onto his stomach, flopping his head down ridiculously coquettishly. Harry can't even see him, for god's sake. And a bloody good job too. He's being... what even is the word for this? Louis feels completely drunk, bubbles fizzing underneath his skin.

“I missed you, too," he what he settles on.

“Yeah?” Harry practically whispers after a pause.

“Really, really. Yeah. I did. So, guess that makes us both a little crazy."

Harry makes a rumbling sound, then Louis hears him clear his throat, the line a little fuzzy. “Um. Speaking of mad things. For my first trial project, I’m developing that half a film I took of you that day.”

He rolls onto his back, legs spread and shifts restlessly on his bed, grinning, (yes, he’s actually embarrassingly turned into a teenage boy again, going on silly-eyed over his crush calling him and liking him back) and distractedly plays with his fringe, socks caressing the sheets as he listens to the silky, low-octave drawl of Harry’s mesmerising voice. He really does want to bottle it up or play it while he sleeps.

Embarrassing. 

"I must be infatuated with you," Harry sighs, soft and forlorn and just on the side of teasing.

It swirls tingles that make him shiver. “You’re obsessed with me,” Louis agrees. 

“Yeah, I think I probably am a bit,” Harry says easily.

Louis screws his eyes shut as he grins far and wide, toes curling in his sheets. “I mean, I’m not complaining. I’m pretty obsessed with you, too,” he replies nonchalantly.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Mm-hmm. It’s terrible.”

“So obsessed that you’ve even been inspired to create a new superhero character based on me?”

"What?"

"Oh, uh, I might have found your blog. That you upload some of your art to? Sorry. I didn't mean to be invasive," Harry rushes out, sounding slightly panicked.

His blog. Harry looked for his blog? Like, actually took the time to search for him?

"That's okay." Louis snorts. "God, how did you even find that?" God, how did he??

"Uh. It was a long shot. Because, um. Oh, god, look, this is going to sound really... I hope you don't think this is too much, but I was looking at your sketches when you went to the bathroom? And you signed them all as DonnyRogue? So, I was feeling really homesick and weepy and got very drunk one night and I was scrolling through Tumblr, and," Harry pauses to take a shaky breath. Louis is so endeared, "I decided to type it in. Just to see if I could find any blogs with that name. Just on a whim. Lots of people post their art on Tumblr these days, right? And amazingly, yours was the only one that came up with that user name. So. It was sheer luck, I think. And yeah. That's how. I went through it all night. Sorry."

"Wow."

"Yeah," Harry drawls, clearly embarrassed.

"Don't be sorry."

"I wasn't ever going to admit that."

"You know you can direct message people or send an ask on Tumblr, right? How come you didn't send a message if you knew it was me?"

"Well, I wasn't sure you wanted to contact me again, was I? You still hadn't called and I thought maybe too many days had come and gone, so. I didn't really want to be the first to find out if I was correct," Harry murmurs quietly. 

Louis has the desperate urge to hug him.

"When did you find me? My blog, I mean?"

"The night before last."

Louis chews on his cheek, belly fluttering. “Actually, yes,” he admits, effectively going back to Harry's first teasing question.

"Yes, what?"

"I have come up with a superhero based on your traits. Exaggerated, of course," Louis smiles. "But pretty accurate in appearance, I'd say. So far, anyway."

“Have you really?” Harry's surprised voice almost yelps, tone excitable and dare he say almost touched? "Oh, wow. Thank you?" he says in a question. "I'd love to see it."

“I haven’t settled on a name quite yet, but he wears a hot pink cat suit, complete with leather boots and a collar. lots of glitter. Haven't decided if they'll be a cape. Probably a mask, though."

Crackled laughter comes bouncing through the receiver. “That sounds... pretty fucking amazing. Oh, my god. A collar, eh? Well, well, well." His tone is smug, heaving with playfulness. Louis would give anything to see his face. FaceTime next time.

Louis lets out a cackle. "What does that mean? Have you got something to tell me?"

"I'm not saying anything," Harry says coyly. "Not just yet, anyway." Faux coyly, should he say. Louis is so, so screwed here. This is all just making Louis crave Harry more, the longer he speaks to him, listens to the quirks and tones of his voice. Wants so badly to touch him, talk to him in person.

“Well, then," Louis laughs. "Thank you. I'll send you the finished artwork, shall I? You can send me your thoughts, any changes you think are worth making. Extra... leather, perhaps?"

Harry makes another noise of amusement.

This is all so easy, so seamless. Louis misses him terribly. He wants to know everything there is to know about him. What he sounds like when he sleeps and when he wakes up. What he eats for breakfast. He wants to know all his moods. His favourite things to do.

Why does he have to be so far away?

“How is your course going so far? Settling into your room okay?” he says instead.

“Uh, yeah. It’s different to what I thought it would be. But that’s not a bad thing. It’s fun, and insightful, and yeah, my room is on the small side. I share with this guy from New Jersey. So he didn’t have to move far. Can’t really relate to how I feel right now. Homesick like crazy. Which I didn't think I would be so soon, but yeah. But he doesn’t really say much. We have different schedules, so I don’t see him really, other than at night. He’s quiet but he’s not like, mean, or anything. Shy, I think. And very awkward. But I guess he’ll come out of his shell more when he’s used to me, right? And yeah, I’ve been out a few times. Been to look around the city. Went to a bar the other night, actually.” He pauses after what seems ages of Louis listening to him talk, and Louis really could keep listening to him talk about anything for hours. “Uh, yeah. That was okay. I guess.”

“Okay?” Louis says, a bit desperate to push for more. Because what if Harry already met someone else? What if he’sꟷ But that’s none of Louis’ business. He can’t ask that. "You guess? Won't be recommending it to friends, then?"

“Yeah. It was alright. I’ve not been out at night much really.” Harry clears his throat.

The line suddenly feels uncomfortable. They're not even in the same room but something's changed quite abruptly. Maybe it's nothing, maybe something is going on around where Harry is right now, distracting him. Louis can’t help himself fishing further, though, running on blind panic.

“Met any cool people?” he tries.

“A few,” Harry answers after a beat. “Um. The people here are really nice. Have been really nice to me. There was this guy yesterday in his second year, who, um. Helped me out. Showed me around the university. Where everything was. Lecture halls. Library. Toilets,” he snorts. "And then that bar I went to as well, actually."

Louis glances at himself in his mirror. He’s frowning deeply. A remarkable scowl painted onto his features that are pressed into a hard line. Wow. Shit, he’s a picture. Thank god his face isn’t visible to Harry right now. 

Something ugly and unpleasant sinks in Louis’ gut. Maybe there has been someone else. “Right.”

Another beat.

“Well, I’m glad you’re making friends. Told you it would be fine, yeah? You'll have your very own circle of mates in no time. And you'll, um. You'll meet plenty of new, interesting people, I'm sure."

There's another bout of silence and this time it goes on a bit longer than the previous ones. The line somehow feels even thicker, heavy with a tension Louis can't figure out. It's awkward. 

“Yeah,” Harry mutters. "Guess so." His tone has a bitter edge to it, an agitation seemingly creeping in. Louis' chest tightens, pulse quickening, worried he's said something wrong.

It's jarring. 

"Hey. Um. This might just be my paranoia here, and feel free to tell me to mind my own business, but, uh. Are you okay?" 

There's another beat or three. And the silence kind of says everything. Louis' heart speeds up further.

"Yeah, course. I'm fine," Harry says offhandedly. "Just got a bit overwhelmed there for a second."

"Oh," Louis says. He pauses. "Are you sure you're okay, Harry?"

"I'm just homesick, I think. Feel a bit weird. Sorry. I'm being weird," he rasps, sighing. Louis' struck with the urge to encompass him in a hug again. He doesn't sound okay. Louis wonders what it is.

But if he's not okay, maybe it isn't Louis' place just yet to prod where Harry clearly doesn't want him to.

"Listen, I have to hang up soon," Harry says, sounding tired and rather mournful. "I have a lot to get on with for tomorrow's class and things. But we can speak in the evening tomorrow, too? If you want to?" His voice is now lighter, softer, but it doesn't do anything to ease up the feeling of dread in Louis' stomach. "Or, uh. Can I give you my email as well? I'll DM it to you on Instagram after I've added you, yeah?" he says, chirpier by the second. "Oh, and we use Whatsapp as well? I have Facebook. Not that I use it much. Oh, and I have a Tumblr account. But we probably won't use that. Um. I'll send you an email in a few days, too?"

"Okay, then," Louis chuckles down the line, amused at Harry's enthusiasm to keep in contact on every medium available. 

"Sorry, I'm getting carried away," Harry chuckles back, light and deep at once. "But we can do that, yeah? Keep speaking?"

"Yeah, no, definitely," Louis finds himself hurriedly nodding to say. "Of course, I'd love to keep speaking to you."

"Yeah?" Harry asks after a moment, sounding as if he's uncertain that Louis would even really want to. As if. Louis' done for there. Isn't that much evident by now? 

"Yes, Harry. Definitely."

"Okay. Uh, okay. Great. Um, Louis, I'm so glad you called me. _Really_." His tone is fond, familiar, melting and moulding its way into the crooks and corners and crevices of Louis' cells, all of his anatomy. 

"Me too," Louis replies, throat clogged with a pang of longing.

"Alright," Harry replies, as though he's lingering on for as long as possible. "I really have to go now, so, uh. Yeah. Bye, Lou. Speak to you tomorrow, yeah?"

"I'll be here," Louis assures him, voice soft.

"Good," Harry breathes and Louis shivers, curling back into himself, eyes focused on the lights strung around his bed.

"Bye, Harry."

"Goodnight, Lou."

And then the line cuts off. Louis exhales a deep breath, staring at Harry's log in his phone.

His mind whirls all night long.


	5. The Crimson Dagger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Okay, so just a note that from this chapter onward, any scenes in italics are from Louis' comic strip world that will be prompted by things in Louis' life in this story. This chapter is quite a bit shorter than usual, sorry about that, but the next one is likely going to be much longer! Hope this is okay :) xx

 

 _There’s a man with long chestnut hair, the tresses billowing in the wind, as he stands upon the rocks, defiant and alert; rocks that are huge in size, piled on top of each other. A cloud of dust particles hovers behind him like a grey, flowing cape fronting his lean, subtly muscled body, covered in a skin-tight silver, crimson and fuchsia catsuit._

_A bulky black collar hugs his pale neck, a ruby gemstone fastened in the centre. It glows, as do the man’s normally green eyes, the enemy drawing closer._

_The man breathes in deeply and his sharp jaw moves to exhale a shower of shining, crisp rose petals, releasing a toxic gas that sends the alien army flying backwards in one powerful sweep, collapsing into each other like dominoes._

_With his hands on his hips, the man smirks quietly to himself, turning to leave but not before he feels a touch enclosing around his wrist, gentle but firm. A second man, wearing a silver and indigo suit himself, chest defined and highlighted in lightning bolts, a silver mask covering the skin around his scorching blue eyes stands beside him, holding the other man’s gaze intensely._

_A brief bout of darkness appears overhead, only to be lit up with a chaotic cluster of thousands of lightning bolts, flashing electric blue in the sky._

_The silver masked man looks up, revealing a huge spaceship menacingly hovering above them. Circular beams of light are extracted from the bottom of the ship, taking their fallen soldiers with them and then they’re gone, returning the murky skies to their previous state of dusk._

_He turns back to the green-eyed man; the red gemstone encased within his collar is blinking erratically. The silver masked man opens his palm outward in front of him._

_A smooth, bronze key sparks and illuminates the dimmed pastels of the approaching dusk surrounding them as far as they can see, an array of looming mountains behind them in the distance. The light that shines from the key is blinding as it creeps out of the spaces between the silver masked man’s fingers, the key pressed inside his gloved palm, the golden glow reflected as swirling orbs in both of their eyes, glittering like tiny explosions._

_The green-eyed man watches seriously as it unfolds, brows pinched, but is thrust into action when searing hot pain shoots up his arm as the silver masked man suddenly crumples in agony, but before he can do anything to help him, the silver masked man is abruptly jolted and thrown into the sky, leaving a hazy white vapour trail in his wake. The green-eyed man’s face is etched in brief shock, before he’s speedily, determinedly flying after him._

Louis shoots up in his bed, his whole body jumping, a layer of sweat coating his face. “Shit. Now that's a dream,” he breathes out loud, scrambling to turn on his lamp and flings his legs out of bed to skid across his room to retrieve his sketch pad and an assortment of felt tips and pencils.

He dumps everything onto his mattress and starts to draw the image of Crimson Dagger watching Lightning Blue hold out his hand before this new story vanishes back inside his dreams, the name of this new comic _The Escapades of Crimson Dagger, Lightning Blue and the Mysterious Passage_ at the forefront of his mind, eager to get it down and use as another pitch to the guys at Zapp Inc.

Once he’s done scribbling down the outline and few key scenes to sketch in more detail tomorrow, Louis traipses back to bed and starts snoring almost immediately as his head hits the pillow, fuchsia and red and _green_ painted behind his eyelids.

**

It’s not until the morning (after maybe a couple of hours sleep tops), that Louis remembered phone calls abroad cost at least a pound a minute on his network. And yeah, Louis might be okay for money for the time being, but... let's not be too irresponsible here. He's attempting to be sensible. (So far...)

He shifted over under the covers, bare feet caressing the cool softness of his sheets, and buried his sleep-crusted eyes into his pillow. He couldn’t believe the cost didn’t cross his mind at any point before, or that the boys didn’t even think of it.

Which meant Harry was proving to be an expensive distraction alreadyꟷif Louis could so easily manage to forget anything even remotely important. So, yeah. A bit worrying. And now he’d be feeling that hole in his wallet because he wasn’t thinking properly. Harry had turned his mind to mush and all responsibility had gone out the window. No, the only thing Louis _was_ thinking about was getting the chance to speak to Harry again as soon as possible.

So, WhatsApp with Harry instead, then. And he should tell that him they only really should stick to text or email from now on, or anything that uses WiFi, anyway, (if they are indeed staying in regular contact) and unless they really need to speak to each other on the phone for a very good reason, like, say, if it’s an emergency or something, then phone calls are acceptable. At least for now.

Yep. Only for emergencies.

An emergency being that Louis misses him.

Louis sighed loudly and tossed himself back over onto his back, staring at the ceiling, or squinting, rather. The dark burgundy of his curtains that his sister picked was keeping out most of the sunny day’s light. He lied there, starfish-style, listening to the sound of car engines pass on the road outside his window, the day moving on with Louis still hidden underneath his duvet, without tea and toast in his system. His stomach gave a growl in protest.

Louis growled back at it.

Abruptly, he whipped his duvet away from his body before he lost the willpower and energy to do so for another hour, struggling to climb out of bed and then accidently stomping on a pen and cursing out loud with a grunt. He rubbed grumpily at his eyes with his second knuckles and walked the literal metre it takes to enter the kitchen (so there are some perks to a tiny, one-bed flat. Less distance when you just don’t wanna move an inch).

He yawned, pouring out some cornflakes and popped a slice of bread into the toaster while he was at it, switching on the kettle as he opened the fridge to fish out what was left of the milk. He gave it a feeble sniff, wrinkling his nose. Eh. _It’ll last one more day,_ he told himself. He scribbled down a note on the on a Post-It stuck to the fridge door, one previously reminding Louis to email Zapp Inc about further sketches he’d scanned onto his laptop.

A new strip about Crimson Dagger and a new character, Lightning Blue.

There’s a sketch of the Dagger in his red and fuchsia catsuit stuck to one of the cupboards. Louis glanced up at it, at the man he’d thought up, stoic and powerful, the suit lined with subtle silver stars and bolts, but harbouring a quiet vulnerability underneath the strong, passive surface, a weakness for another hero, one in sudden danger.

Louis smiled to himself, a finger absently sweeping over the drawing. It's one of the best he's done in a while, he thinks.

Maybe he’s actually just pining for the idea of Harry and what he’s feelingꟷis simply being denied what he _thinks_ he wants, the decision having been taken out of his hands before Louis could see how he and Harry progressed. Hence the pining.

Whichꟷyeah, okay, that may be the case. But the only way Louis’ going to find out if what happened between them was a fluke, a fleeting attraction or the real deal, is seeing Harry again.

So, Louis’ been thinking. He’s been doing a _lot_ of thinking.

Like he’s doing right now, with the sun pouring into his hair, making it look golden bronze, the cool wetness of melted ice from the glass clutched in his hand, curling his toes and closing his eyes as he mentally calculates the odds of realistically being able to travel to New York for a few days at the end of next month.

He’s not proud of it, but it’s currently one-thirty in the afternoon and it’s sunny out so he’s made himself a rum and coke in honour of the weather (and to ease his erratic nerves over his lack of sleep, knowing he has a long shift tonight at the club), and drinking it out of a mug as to not look too obvious in case Liam comes back to his for lunch and expresses his disapproval at the time of day.

And Louis is dwelling, daydreaming really, legs kicked up on the balcony’s ledge, feet bare.

This would just be so very easy, wouldn’t it? Meeting someone, dating themꟷdating _Harry..._

If Harry still lived on the same bloody continent.

There wouldn’t be all this stupid, tedious angst before it’s even started. Louis wouldn’t have to be giving this that much thought at all. He could just live his life as it is, as it could be, with the wonderful added bonus of Harry to go home to, to share his days with.

Take the tube to meet Harry somewhere for lunch in the city. Meet him after his lectures, spend some time talking, take a nap, snog until they need water. Then go to work. Maybe sometimes, on some weekends, Harry would have gone to the club himself, or with his friends, make eyes with Louis from across the bar while he dances, drenched in a mosaic of dark neon lights, hair matted to his sweaty face. Then he’d wait until closing time and take a cab home with Louis, and they’d fuck until sunrise and sleep during the day at Louis’ flat. Go to dinner in the afternoon and do it all over again, working their schedules around each other to spend time together, learning everything about each other’s moods and quirks and likes and dislikes, taking in their bad habits and hopes and dreams and all the rest.

Date. Get to know each other. Fall in love. Just live. You know, all that sappy, idealistic stuff in which Louis definitely spent all night thinking about. Yes, he did.

For now, though, he’s sitting out on his tiny balcony, overlooking the train track, surrounded by brick wall covered in graffiti as the sun beams down and saturates Louis in light and heat and summer, the slight breeze caressing the hair on Louis’ arms and legs, tickling his toes as the radio plays Linger by The Cranberries.

And it’s nice. Or it will be for a bit, anyway. Until the next contact he makes with Harry.

So, yeah. That’s where he’s at.

His phone buzzes on top of the rickety portable table positioned next to his deck chair. He sees that it’s a DM from Instagram, Harry’s little head popping up in the corner of his screen. He’s grinning cheesily with dark sunglasses on, hair swept to the side in a curled quiff, oozing a contradictory combination of effortless cool and goofily endearing. Louis’ stomach does a flip.

 

**iamharrystyles**

_Good morning, Louis. I hope you’ve had a good one. How’s your afternoon so far? :) xx_

 

Louis laughs. Harry’s so properly polite and charming and Louis’ a little bit ruined at this point in time. He takes another sip of his rum and coke and begins typing out a response.

 

**louis_tomlinson**

_hey Harry. good morning to you too ;) i’m currently sitting on my balcony doing a bit of sunbathing and day drinking. yourself?_

 

**iamharrystyles**

_Oh, that sounds lovely. Enjoy the sun. I’m jealous! I’m walking to my 9am lecture, actually. Are we still okay to talk later?_

 

**louis_tomlinson**

_about that… can we maybe stick to this or whatsapp? i didn’t remember until last night how expensive calls abroad were?_

 

**iamharrystyles**

_Crap!! I’m so sorry!! You’re right. I forgot too. This and Whatsapp is fine :) So, I’ll speak to you later?_

**louis_tomlinson**

_or anytime…_

**iamharrystyles**

_Cool. Until then…_

**louis_tomlinson**

_have a good class!! learn some things!!x_

**iamharrystyles**

_Thanks :) I'll do my best. xx_

Louis grins wide and kicks back once more, tipping his head up toward the blue sky and its fluffy white clouds, a head spinning with the remnants of run and Harry.

**

And so, over the next few weeks, the contact continues. 

Louis keeps in touch with Harry via pretty much every social media platform possible, and they steadily they fall into an easy pattern of communication, of getting to know the other, learning bits of their moods and quirks and opinions, even it is over a screen. And Louis grows more and more fond with each message he receives, be it early on in the morning from when Harry was texting into the void, not being able to sleep. Or late after Louis’ night shift, Harry just about to go out on a Saturday and tipsily sending Louis puns and glazed selfies that has Louis holding in whimpers on the cab ride home. And Harry starts to frequently call him Lou, and Louis loses it a bit each time he reads those three letters in his messages.

 _“What’s your favourite song of the last decade? It's for science,”_ Harry messaged him randomly as Louis was just about to shower and get going for his shift at the club, and didn’t reply until very early in the morning, when Harry was likely asleep. He’d listed numerous tracks, all ones that Harry dutifully memorised and got back to him with the lyrics that spoke to him the most.

“ _What are you doing right now? I’m bored,”_ Louis said one evening last week. _“Homework,”_ Harry replied. _“You’re a uni student. Homework???” “Yes, Lou. We still have work to do away from class and have ready for the next.” “Sounds like torture.” “It is.”_

He’s even taken up sending Louis dad jokes that Louis absolutely does not give the time of day.

_“Will you remember me in a month?”_

_“Yes?”_ Louis answered, heart beating harder because what?

_“Will you remember me in a week?”_

_“Yes, Harry.”_

_“Knock knock.”_

Oh, here we go, Louis thought.

_“Who’s there?”_

_“See. You forgot me already!”_

_“You’re so bad. That was terrible.”_ Yeah, at sending Louis into a right state.

 

**HARRY**

_Why did the coffee file a police report?_

 

**LOUIS**

_Harry, I’m trying to sleep. I had a shift last night._

**HARRY**

_Answer please_

 

It was a testament to their quickly progressing friendship that Harry took no notice. Louis liked it.

 

**LOUIS**

_Go on. Why did it?_

 

**HARRY**

_It got mugged_

**LOUIS**

_……this conversation is over._

 

**HARRY**

_LMAO!!!!!_

 

Yeah, so. There's a lot of that. It makes Louis feel warm tingles from the attention and it's just. Nice.

And Louis snaps pictures of stupid things he sees and sends them to Harry. Like a cheesy billboard for toothpaste, the new McDonalds menu, a stone frog ornament in a garden centre that he tags as Harry underneath, receives a Google image of a woodland mouse in response and Louis laughed for an hour straight.

They message about their days, their schedules, how tired they are, how drunk they are.

That was a particular night of muddled, infatuated chaos for Louis’ insides.

It was a few days ago, a Thursday evening for Harry and one of Louis’ rare days off. On Fridays, Harry doesn’t have a lecture to get to until three in the afternoon (he actually knows that, Jesus), so, if Harry were to have a few too many, he’d have a good half day to try and sober up in time to competently take notes.

And so, Harry thought it perfectly reasonable to go out to a nightclub, a few uni friends in tow and got what Louis can only describe as sloppily, hopelessly drunk.

How does he know this? Well, because Harry left about a half a dozen messages on his phone as well as one voicemail in which Louis doesn’t want to dare think about what’s on it.

Messages like:

 

**HARRY (5)**

_Can’t stop thikni bout yoy lou I just miss you so mchu_

_I wish things were different :((((((_

_and I kniw we dont know each other in person that well but I feel like I know you now don’t; you??_

_Even thou you'e so far away_

_Wish we coud be together againn :((((_

 

Talk about a sensory overload. Sober Harry would keel over if he knew how many grammatical and spelling mistakes were in that one message alone. And the obvious affection and fondness and the need to be around Louis obviously present in Harry’s intoxicated message is playing havoc with his head. It's causing that achy feeling of missing Harry to grow bigger by the day, which isn't the direction Louis needs to be heading back in.

Because so far, surprisingly, Louis has been dealing well with the whole distance thing. Even Liam and Niall think he’s been showing very adult restraint with his… overseas crush.

"You're getting on really well, then?" Liam asked yesterday, making himself at home while Niall and Louis brainstormed their newest character's weaknesses, pens and paper strewn all over Louis' sofa and floor that was in dire need of a sweep.

"Uh, yeah. It's going well," was Louis' diplomatic answer. He of course left out the late-night pining and thinking about Harry too much at work that's mixed up several orders for irate, tipsy customers.

"You know, I'm quite proud of you."

Louis studied Liam, sceptical. "Are you taking the piss?"

"No," Liam insisted, as he wiped a mug with a dishtowel, sleeves pushed to his elbows, glasses perched atop his head. "I think you're dealing with this distance incredibly well. And you know it is said that relationships and friendships made online can be some of the most fulfilling, intimate ones you'll ever have."

"Oh, yeah? Is that right," Louis murmured, averting his gaze from Liam's intent eyes, zeroing in on him far too closely.

"Yeah," he shrugged. "And it kinda makes sense, too. Because you end up telling each other stuff you wouldn't normally say out loud, you know? When it's on your phone, when you're typing to a screen, there's not really a filter because there's less consequences. You can just ignore a message, right? It's harder to ignore someone when they're right there with you. Your real thoughts and feelings and personal shit just comes out, things that you just can't tell you real-life mates."

"So, you're saying you're jealous of Harry, yeah?" Louis teased, shading in the gemstone on Crimson Daggers' collar. Liam raised his eyebrows only for a second when he saw it. Which is progress. "Now, now, Liam. There's enough of me to share all round." He smirked, meeting Liam's rolling eyes, but he was smiling, too, lowering another mug and picking up a plate to dry off.

"Makes sense to me," Niall piped up, his own glasses on his eyes, brows furrowed in concentration as he put pen to paper.

Yes. Louis has to admit they’re naturally striking up a lovely friendship over the phone much quicker than he anticipated, and it’s made Louis feel infinitely closer to Harry with each new day that they speakꟷwhich is literally every day. Sometimes he doesn't even speak to own family every day. Because even if some days Harry or himself are both too busy for a longer conversation, one or the other always sends at least a few messages to see how the other is, or if only to send a silly picture of something they’d seen that day.

It's comforting, intimate, a wonderful thing, really. Getting to know Harry like this, no guards up, just message after message, however pointless and stupid and nonsensical. Because that's how you get to know a person, really, right? Their mind. And connecting through a phone is all the mind, the personality, the emotions and moods someone feels or is in at any given point in the day.

And Louis is treasuring every message he receives from Harry, falling deeper and deeper down a hole he's no intention of climbing out of. Not unless he's dragged out.

He goes for neutral. A jokey response to lighten what feels like something momentous to Louis, unease clawing at his chest and a hopelessness that's basically numbing his senses.

He's really got that pining down, eh? He frowns down at his phone, feeling stupid.

 

**LOUIS**

_Someone have a bit too much to drink? ;)_

He holds his breath, puffing out his cheeks as he sits with his knees up in his joggers, his purple hoodie engulfing him, trying to will down the high-level fluttering of butterflies dancing in his stomach. (He wishes they'd just go to bed at last.)

Because this is the first time since maybe that first phone call that Harry has indicated he wants anything more than friendship. Louis was starting to think that night was never going to be explicitly mentioned again.

A friend does not tell you they ‘can’t stop thinking about you’ in Louis’ twenty- two years of experience and knowledge and wow, there goes another flip-floppy, terribly addictive, swooping motion of giddy infatuation.

It’s dreadful.

And then his phone vibrates.

Louis momentarily shuts his eyes and then scrolls to see the message.

 

**HARRY**

_I’m so sorry about last night!!! I was so drunk... and I may have let my mouth get carried away with me… Again I'm sorry for whatever embarrassing things were sent. xx_

 

**LOUIS**

_Don’t be silly! It was cute!_

(He's super careful not to let himself type _"you're cute"_.)

 

**HARRY**

_You’re using capitals… Are you okay? Are you having an existential crisis? Ahaha anyway, yeah, not if you’d have seen me. Sick in my hair is not a good look. It was pretty awful and humiliating. I was a complete state rambling who knows what. xx_

 

**LOUIS**

_Excuse you. I happen to type properly sometimes, thanks very much. You do know this. And I’m sure you look incredibly endearing with vomit stuck in your curls_

 

**HARRY**

_Absolutely not and that is disgusting._

 

Louis is not at all disappointed that Harry is brushing right over what he said in those messages. Nope.

 

**LOUIS**

_So, other than the obvious good time you’re having off campus, what about on it? ;)_

 

Then there’s a pauseꟷalmost an hour pause. Not that Louis is worried. Because it's fine. It's normal. Harry might have been called away somewhere. Had to dash off to another lecture. Had an emergency. There’s a number of reasons why someone couldn’t reply right away. And Harry doesn't owe him one. He has his own life to live. It's perfectly reasonable.

Louis needs to find a fucking grip and stop being a ridiculous person right now.

“He could have had an unexpected room inspection,” Niall offers. He came over about twenty minutes into Louis’ anxious nail baiting session, now on a second rum and coke and it’s not even yet three in the afternoon.

“Yes,” Louis nods aggressively in agreement. Legs crossed awkwardly in his chair, still on the balcony, where Niall is leaning, a beer in his hand. He’s not got a lecture today apparently. Louis’ not sure he believes him, though it is his MA that he’s started. “An unexpected guest, exactly. There’s absolutely nothing to get worked up over. I just asked him what he got up to when he’s at uni. Completely innocent and inoffensive question. Right, Niall?" 

Niall’s lips pop off the rim of his bottle with a slick sound, his free hand wiping the sheen of sweat off his forehead just above his sunglasses. “Completely.”

“Or,” Louis continues, pointing at Niall for emphasis, “he’s speaking to a friend who just turned up. Maybe the kitchenette has flooded! Yeah. He’s helping a friend with a domestic emergency.”

Niall nods. “Could be anything, mate. There’s nothing to worry about, yeah? Just chill out before you become a fanatic,” he says, brows pinched. “And we really need to be working on this new idea you had? Where exactly are we thinking Lightning Blue has been banished to?”

But Louis isn’t listening.

“Yeah. He’s with a friend. A friend who’s there with him in person,” he says slowly, gazing into the distance, eyes fixed on the many rooftops and their balconies, some decorated in plants and metres of fairy lights over the edge, sun-chairs spread out upon them, clothes hanging from the washing lines connected to the patio doors. “As in right next to him. Up close. And they’re alone. And wet from the flooding incident. A burst pipe. Harry takes his shirt off. The friend… they do the same and they’re centimetres away from his faceꟷ”

“Louis!”

“Huh?” 

“Snap out of that shit or I’m gonna have to snap it out for you."

“What does that mean?” Louis says, tone defensive. "Watch your tone, please, Niall."

Niall slaps his cheek. Not too hard but hard enough that Louis starts yelling bloody murder. Alright, so it was more of a tap compared to what a brat Louis has been to him.

“Christ, sake. You fiend! That fucking hurt.” It really didn't but he has to distract his insanity somehow, right?

“You slap me all the time. It’s not nice.” Niall says, all irritated and childlike, as though Louis has stolen his last slice of pizza.

“So, you thought you’d teach me a lesson?” Louis barks, rubbing his cheek and planting his cold glass against it.

Niall rolls his eyes at him, briefly lifting his sunglasses onto his head. 

“You’re being ridiculous over a message that hasn’t been replied to. Which could be for any kind of reason. Don't be so needy. He doesn't owe you a reply in under thirty seconds." That's a thing Louis is well aware of. He's just... muddled up, been put back together the wrong way or something. Or whatever that means. What was he saying? Christ. "Has it even been read?”

Louis checks his phone, sheepish, cheeks burning. Nope. The ticks aren’t blue. He really must be busy. Well, than was an overreaction and a half. Louis' lessening in overall sanity as the moments tick by, clearly.

Jesus.

“No,” he sniffs, averting his eyes.

“What did I tell you?” Niall raises his hand, slips his shades back on. “Stop being a goddamn neurotic fool or I’m calling your sister.”

Louis glares at him. “That’s low, even for you.” 

Niall smiles smugly, and settles back against the balcony’s edge, taking another sip of his beer, the sun pouring over his pale skin. Louis hopes he has a reasonable amount of sunscreen on. He’ll burn like a cooked lobster. 

“And stop thinking so much,” Niall murmurs blindly. He moves to pull out another of Louis’ fold-up sun chairs and takes a seat.

“Saying and doing are two very different things and I’m not great with either one.”

“Yeah, just drink your rum and rest your vocal chords for five minutes, will ya?”

“Alright,” Louis drawls, rolling his eyes. He is being absolutely ridiculous. And neurotic. It’s true. "God, what even was that? Jesus." Louis wipes a hand over his face. "If I act like that again, Niall, you have permission to hide my phone." He finishes his drink in another three gulps, keeping it cushioned between his hands as he tips his head back again, letting his eyes rest for a bit before he has to get dressed. That's the last time he loses his shit over a goddamn text.

**

Harry messages him the next day. Louis’ crashed out in bed, still in his work clothes and sleeping off last night’s particularly busy, from hell shift when his phone vibrates against his desk. “Fuck,” he mutters, rolling back over. Now he has to move and get out of bed to retrieve his phone which is all the way over there. He whimpers, heaving himself up with great difficulty and swinging his legs over the bed, still wearing his trousers.

 **2 new messages,** his phone notifications informs him. 

 **HARRY** greets him on the screen and Louis’ stomach traitorously flutters beyond his control. He feels mildly embarrasses at how relieved and giddy he feels just because he’s got new messages from Harry. God. This is becoming a Situation™

_Hi, it’s me. I’m sorry for the super late reply. I got caught up with something that I realise now I was just too polite to say no to and get out of._

_Anyway, in answer to your earlier question, I would definitely say I’m having more fun on campus than off. At least the process of developing a photograph is an easier task for me than trying to navigate my way through possibly acting on my sexuality in a subtle but open way. It’s a struggle haha._

Louis’ brows furrow, eyes bleary from sleep as he tries to blink them open properly to read through the message a few more times.

 _‘acting on my sexuality’_ immediately jumps out at him. He takes his phone back to bed and shimmies down into the duvet. It's colder now, the sun having gone back to hiding behind the clouds. 

He wants to ask if sleeping with Louis was the first time Harry’d ever done anything with a guy. Or at all. But is that too invasive? Maybe he should wait until Harry wants to elaborate more. That’s the one thing that haven’t really talked about yet. Their sexualities. Of course, Louis has alluded to past dates and such, and he's pretty sure he's been obvious with the fact he's gay, but Harry hasn’t really said anything on the matter.

And Louis has left it alone, doesn’t want to pry or be too nosy and end up overstepping. He may have slept with Louis and not held back at all with his attraction towards him, with wanting to be with Louis, but that doesn't automatically mean Harry is out. There's a good chance Harry might not be ‘out’ in simpler terms. Even if, sure, they didn’t hold back in public when they were together at the funfair. But then, Harry may just be talking about not being out in New York. Or being openly anything to the people he's met there. Because these are new people he has to figure out whether he wants to come out to all over again, aren't they? And even if he’s out to his family and friends at home, coming out is a constant, never-ending process. You don't come out once and that's it.  Whenever you’re meeting someone new, there's a choice. You’re always trying to decide whether it’s worth telling someone you’ve just met that you’re gay and correcting them when they assume you’re straight. Or if it’s safe to come out to your new work colleagues, or when you’ve made a new friend. Do you say so from the off? Or wait to feel them out a bit longer to judge what their reaction might be. Asking yourself if it’s easier to keep your life private to these people you’ll be working with, no matter how relaxed the environment seems.

Louis doesn’t envy having to make the decision about who to tell and who to not at Harry’s uni. Somewhere where he knows barely anyone yet. On his own in a new city, a new country on top of it all, too. It took Louis ages before he felt comfortable enough to tell Perrie and Roman he was gay at work. He needn’t have worried too much, though, thankfully. Roman just slapped him on the shoulder and said “cool, man,” with a kind grin, and Perrie told him she was a lesbian, laughing. So, yeah. But obviously not everyone has the easiest time like Louis has with this job.

He begins typing out a reply.

**LOUIS**

_Oh. Hey, stranger. Thought you’d jilted me. (I’m joking ;P) No worries. Do you maybe wanna talk about it? I’m a good listener ;)_

 

There's an instant reply. It must be nine am there. 

 

**HARRY**

_I would never :P And uh, I'm kind of in a rush to get to the library? Rain check. But thank you :) xx_

 

**LOUIS**

_Of course, anytime :)_

 

**HARRY**

_There is something I wanted to talk to you about, though. I'll text you later? Or will you be working?_

 

**LOUIS**

_I will be, but just leave them for me to read later and I'll get back to you when I'm not a mess I have to peel off the tiles :P_

**HARRY**

_Okay ahaha. Speak to you when I do, then xx_

 

**LOUIS**

_Yep, speak to you later, Haz_

Great. And now he’s too intrigued to sleep, a mind whirring yet again. He makes a sandwich and wolfs it down, pouring out a mug of coffee, and starts to sketch.

 

 _The city roars below his feet._

_The Crimson Dagger’s x-ray vision is a red blur as he scans the traffic below from his spot in the highest building in the block, beads of sweat pooling at his temples around the smooth elastic of his mask. A drop slides down the slope of his nose, nostrils flaring in concentration. And worry._

_He takes in the pedestrians walking down the street, on their phones, clutching bags, holding briefcases and shopping bags, looking out for the enemy in disguise, hiding in plain sight._

_Then he sees it._

_His heart rate spikes drastically, can hear it drumming violently in his in-ears._

_He spots the black van speeding down the street through the city, the towering buildings and skyscrapers adjoining the busy, grappling day happening around it, weaving recklessly in and out of the other cars._

_The Dagger zeros in on the target, breathes in and waits until the van is somewhat isolated from the rest of the traffic as it turns the street, and exhales._

_A violent gust of wind swirls like a tornado and picks up the van, journeying it through the air to deposit in a nearby park, away from most civilians. When it lands with minimal force, a mass of thorned vines wrap around the vehicle, squeezing the metal and crushing it to scare the kidnappers in the front seats, cracking the glass and making them swear._

_The Dagger flicks on his teleportation button on his belt, appearing beside the battered van, covered in vines, a cluster of flowers having already begun to bloom within the branches around the wheels._

_He pulls out the men in the driver and passenger seats and chucks them onto the grass, more vines trying them up together, back to back._

_They start yelling obscenities and threats and he silences them with their own jackets wrapped tightly around their mouths with yet more vines._

_He then turns his attention to the back of the van. He rips open the doors easily and there on the floor, unconscious and with his head sagged against the van’s wall, is Lightning Blue._

_“Blue, hey," he whispers, gently tracing the little skin visible underneath his mask, bruised and scraped. There’s a cut on his lip. “It’s me. It’s Green.”_

_Lightning stirs, his eyes flickering open, a dim blue. He grins wolfishly, closing his eyes. The Dagger can’t help grinning, too._

_“You know I always wondered why you went by Green instead of Red, considering your actual name. Or our made-up names, I should stress,” he smirks. “Seems you’re a very wanted man, Green._

_“Oh, I know that. It’s been a hell of a week, you know.”_

_“W took the key,” Blue says, disappointment and frustration written all over his face._

_“We’ll get it back.”_

_Blue winces as he sits up. The Dagger scans his injuries. A torn tendon in his side. The Dagger blows on Blue’s hip area, healing it._

_He pulls back, dizzy with it._

_“Are you okay?” Blue frowns, reaching out._

_“You are now, and that means so am I.”_

_“Hey! Is anyone in there!” someone calls from outside the van. A small crowd of people have come over to presumably help or to see what the fuss is about. There is a beaten-up van covered in vines with its passengers tied up in plants in the park._

_The Dagger smiles at Blue playfully._

_“Oh, great. You’re gonna carry me in your arms while you fly, aren’t you?”_

_“Get ready for the ride of your life, Blue,” he grins. “Don’t you want a break from exploding and take in the view for once?”_

_Blue gives him an unamused look. “It’s my thing. Lightning. I’m literally made of lightning. Duh.”_

_“Come on. There’s still a whole gang of thieves out for my stone.”_

_Blue follows him out of the van, gives a cordial nod and a two-fingered salute to the gathering crowd, wide-eyed and on their phones. Not ideal._

_He eyes the Dagger’s collar, the gleaming red gemstone still flashing in distress. “As I said, a very wanted man.”_

_He takes Blue’s arm. “Ready?”_

_“Let’s get back that key.”_

_And they launch into the sky, leaving behind a crowd of shocked and elated faces, pointing their phones up at the clouds._

**

“Niall, hold up a second!” Louis’ just about to leave for work when he receives another message from Harry. He really wishes he’d switched it off in time because now whatever is inside it is going to be on his mind for the rest of his long shift of endless spilled drinks and rowdy drunken customers.

Hooray.

He could actually use a very strong shot right about now. Anxiety and excitement curls around his gut for some inexplicable reason.

This message isn’t likely to be different from any other so why is he almost sweating?

 

**HARRY**

_Heyy, I know I said later, as in not my late lunch break ahaha, but uh… I kind of need some advice?_

Screw it. Louis has to reply to him now.

“Lou, hurry it up, we’re gonna miss the damn bus!” Niall yells after him.

“Alright! Be there in a sec," Louis calls back, staring intently down at the screen, teeth sunken into his lip.

He hears Niall’s frustrated groan in the hallway. “I’ll go without you! It’s not _my_ job here.”

 

**LOUIS**

_Shoot, mate. What kind of advice?_

 

**HARRY**

_Uhhhhh. The guy-type kind? ;)_

 

**LOUIS**

_Okay, forgive me if I'm being dense, but what do you mean by that exactly?_

 

**HARRY**

_The romantic kind! Obviously ;) So. Can you help me?! ;)_

 

What?

 _'Obviously?'_ No, nuh uh? There's nothing _obviously_ about this! And ' _romantic kind? '_ For whom!? For Harry? For Harry’s friend? Friend _s_? And what's with all the sudden fucking winky faces?? Harry is asking Louis advice about guys??

“Lou!” Niall bellows. Louis almost drops his phone.

Fuck.

Sighing in confusion and stomach quickly filling with discomfort, he leaves the message on read and shoves his phone into his jean pocket, collecting his keys off the dresser and slams the door shut behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> here's the [tumblr](http://curlsandlashes.tumblr.com/post/173417939271/falling-off-the-edge-by-pearlydewdrops-wip-48) post to reblog if you wish :) xx


End file.
